Tramp in Armour

THREE Friday, May 24th

‘Sergeant! Wake up! Wake up!’

Barnes opened his eyes instantly, blinking once, his hand automatically closing over the revolver he had hidden under the blanket.

‘What is it, Penn?’

‘Come up to the bridge – we’ve got company.’

Barnes had slept in his boots and now he sat up with the minimum of movement, glancing back at Pierre as he switched on the torch, shading it with his hand. Switching it off again immediately, he clambered to his feet and nearly fell into the river. Pierre lay in exactly the same position as when he had fallen asleep, one large hand resting limply outside the blanket. From the far side of the tank came a deep-throated snore. Reynolds was still putting his time to good use. Following Penn, Barnes climbed up the bank, digging in his toes and using his hand to follow the line of the wall. The illuminated hands of his watch, the watch he had borrowed from Penn, registered 1.30 am. Another two and a half hours to dawn. And Penn had let him oversleep by thirty minutes.

Coming up on the bridge he stopped as a chill ran through him. The moon was up and through the palely illuminated night to the south a column of lights was advancing towards them. In the heavy stillness of the early morning he could faintly hear the purr of many engines. He made a quick estimate of the number of vehicles, stopped counting when he had reached twenty, which was only a fraction of the total number of tiny lights.

‘Penn, go down and wake Reynolds – quietly. Tell him to get his damned boots on.’

‘What about Pierre?’

‘Don’t wake him on any account.’

Barnes stood and waited, shivering a little from the cold. The nearest lights seemed closer now, the sound of the engines distinctly louder. This was no procession of refugees heading for the bridge: he could tell that from the orderly advance of the headlights, just sufficiently well spaced out to allow the whole endless column to move forward at a rate of about twenty miles an hour. Cocking his head to one side he listened carefully, but there was no sound of aircraft in the cloudless sky. Standing there on the bridge he could hear the gentle lapping of the river as it swirled round Bert in the cavern below, but the water sound was now being muffled by the steady revolutions of the motors of the approaching armada, which he was quite certain now was an Army column of enormous striking power. British, French, or German? Their very lives might hang on the answer to that question. A few minutes later he was listening even more intently as Penn stood by his side. No, he had not been mistaken. Above the engine rhythms he could detect a familiar sound – the steady rumble of tank tracks. They were standing in the path of an armoured column.

Scrambling down the side of the bank, finding his way by feel, he went in under the bridge and switched on his torch briefly. Reynolds was up and standing on the same side of the river as Pierre who had just laced up his shoes. The lad’s hair was freshly combed and he was staring up at Reynolds who held a revolver in his hand.

‘They’ll be coming over the bridge in a few minutes,’ Barnes snapped. ‘It may be a Panzer column. Whatever happens you both stay here until I come back. Get it, Reynolds?’

He looked meaningfully at the driver and then scrambled back up the bank to where Penn still waited at the northern end of the bridge, just in time to see the corporal leave the road in a hurry as he plunged down the far side of the bridge. Instantly, Barnes moved sideways along the bank and hid himself behind a thick clump of wild shrubs. The next moment he heard the buoyant burst of a motor-cycle. Lights flashed, crossed the bridge, swerved round the corner, and headed north, immediately followed by a second cycle. The lights of the second patrol briefly lit up the first and in the side-car he caught a glimpse of a seated soldier who wore a pudding-shaped helmet, a machine-pistol cradled across his chest. It was Jerry all right. Christ!

Instead of following the first patrol towards Fontaine, the second motor-cycle reduced speed, swerved on to the grass, its headlights sweeping over the shrub where Barnes lay, then stopped, its engine still running. The soldier in the side-car stepped out and the cycle drove off, leaving the sentry who walked back to the bridge. Barnes lay very still as the German peered over the parapet on his side. A powerful torch beam flashed on and swept over the bank where they might have taken Bert down by the direct route to the river bed. Then it went out and he heard the sentry’s feet march back to the end of the parapet. The torch flashed on again, pointing down the bank. It began to move forward and behind it feet slithered, recovered, and then started to feel their way down over the brambles. Barnes gritted his teeth. This was a thorough bastard. He was going to check under the bridge.

Without a sound, Barnes brought his right hand up to his hip, grasped the hilt of his knife and withdrew it from the sheath. The sound of the oncoming engines was much louder. He would have no time at all to work this trick. He lay still, listening to the sentry moving down the bank, praying that Perm wouldn’t open fire. The German was only a few feet from Barnes as he passed him and his feet were making a row as they trod through the undergrowth. Lifting himself carefully to his feet, Barnes moved across to the wall under cover of the sentry’s shuffling feet, leaning out his hand to contact the stonework. Then he began to follow the German down, left hand on the wall, right hand gripping the knife. He had to finish him with the first thrust. He could see the silhouette of the sentry clearly against the torch glow: any second now the torch would swivel left and shine on the stationary tank. What the German’s reaction would be when he found that under the bridge was really something for the book. Stealthily, he went down the bank. There was one horrible moment when he nearly slipped, digging in his right heel desperately, his knife hand waving all over the place, but he regained his balance without the sentry hearing him. The German was about four feet ahead of him now, and beyond the bridge the purr of the motors grew steadily louder. He had to get a little closer. He stepped down farther and at that moment the German swung his torch sideways and the beam glared full on the menacing hull of the hidden tank, its two-pounder pointing downstream. Barnes sprang forward, knife held high, his body lunging forward and downward in one leap. The knife reached the sentry’s back and stabbed clean through the greatcoat, penetrating the body deeply under the impetus of Barnes’ violent thrust. They fell forward together on to the bank, the sentry groaning once as Barnes landed on top of him. The torch splashed in the river.

As he fell, Barnes smashed his forehead on the German’s steel helmet, which stunned him for a second, but his brain forced him to his feet, still holding the knife hilt which he was pulling at savagely. It wouldn’t come out. Penn appeared from under the arch.

‘I was just going to shoot him.’

‘That’s what I was afraid of. Here, hold this.’ He handed him his own torch which he had switched on. Then he was tugging the German over on his back, unhitching his steel helmet, which was a struggle because the head flopped back inside it. He got it loose and thrust the helmet at Penn. ‘Get this on… someone’s got to act as sentry – they’ll expect to see him. I’m too short so you’ve just volunteered. Grab his machine-pistol, man.’ He was unbuttoning the greatcoat, trying to push the body over on its stomach and only succeeding when Penn helped him. The throb of the advancing engines resounded in his ears. ‘Reynolds, you stay there with Pierre.’ They had the sentry over on his stomach now, both of them hauling a sleeve over limp arms. ‘The knife,’ said Penn, ‘we can’t…’ ‘Yes, we can. You stand with your back to the bridge wall so they can’t see it.’ The sleeves were free now. Taking a firm hold of the coat, Barnes ripped it clean up over the haft of the protruding knife and helped Penn inside the coat. ‘Now, follow me, but keep out of sight till I tell you – we may be too late…’

Scrambling back up the bank like a terrier, ripping his hands and face on the brambles, he reached the top and peered over the parapet. The leading vehicle was alarmingly close but its headlight beams hadn’t yet reached the bridge. He could hear that deep-throated mechanical rumble clearly. They had tanks, all right.

‘Just in time, Penn. Here, your top button’s undone. Get over that side, your back to the wall. Hold the machine-pistol across your chest. All you have to do is to stand there so they see you. Away you go!’

Penn dashed across the bridge and took up his position. With a last look at the headlights, Barnes felt his way rapidly back down the bank, hand scraping over the wall. At the bottom he trod straight into the river and retrieved the sentry’s lighted torch. Switching it off, he flung it under the bridge and got back on to the bank. Now for the really difficult part. Feeling around in the dark, his hands touched the sentry’s legs, grabbed his ankles. He took a deep breath and began to move backwards under the arch, hauling the German with him. He wondered if he was going to make it: the body weighed several stones more than Barnes and it was like trying to shift a buffalo, but inch by inch he pulled it back until it was well under the arch. Then he bent down and toppled it over the edge so that it fell into the water between the river bank and Bert’s right-hand track. As he stood up he found that his legs were trembling with the effort and sweat was streaming down his back and over his forehead. In standing up he bumped into someone. Pierre. His voice sounded strangled.

‘I think I’m going to be ill – Reynolds attacked me.’

‘Reynolds,’ growled Reynolds, ‘shoved a revolver Into his belly – he was trying to play hero. Wanted to come up and help.’

‘Don’t be ill over us,’ snapped Barnes. ‘You asked for it.’

‘I think I will be all right.’

‘Sit down, Pierre, and stay down.’ Barnes reached out a hand in the dark and pushed it against Pierre’s chest until he felt him sitting down on the footpath. ‘And if we have one cheep out of you Reynolds will empty his gun into you…’

He stopped speaking, holding the wall for support. A vehicle rolled over his head. Twin beams swept over the river bank and briefly passed over the small copse in the field. Then they were gone as the vehicle proceeded north. In no time at all more wheels moved over them, more beams swivelled, then vanished. To make sure that Pierre understood the situation Barnes touched his head lightly with the muzzle of his revolver, bending down to whisper:

‘Just keep it quiet, laddie, and you’ve nothing to worry about.’

Nothing to worry about, that’s a good one, thought Barnes. Four more vehicles rolled over and then he heard a different sound coming, the smooth grinding clatter of heavy caterpillar tracks. The arch seemed to shiver as it rumbled over, little more than twelve feet above them, a German tank moving at medium speed. Before the rumble had disappeared they could hear the next monster approaching the bridge, reducing speed slightly, the tracks clanking like the tread of a small leviathan. As he leant against the stone wall Barnes felt scared stiff and wondered how poor Perm was feeling.

Penn was petrified, gripped by such a paroxysm of fear that he had almost lost all sense of feeling any emotion. He had just taken up his position when the first vehicle arrived, headlights briefly glaring in his face, then sweeping over the bridge, round the corner, and up the road towards Fontaine. An armoured car. Penn had stationed himself at a point where the bridge wall curved away from the road, so that he presented a profile to the oncoming vehicles – a profile of a pudding-shaped helmet, a greatcoat, and a machine-pistol. He held the weapon at an angle, its muzzle pointed across the road to be sure that they would see it. Another armoured car swept past and Penn began counting: Barnes would want to record the make-up of the column afterwards, always assuming that there was going to be an afterwards. As he stood there Penn was horribly aware that it only needed one vehicle with an officer to stop and he would be done for. Four more armoured cars drove past and then Penn experienced an even sharper terror as he heard the approach of a familiar rumble. The tanks were coming – they would have commanders erect in their turrets, men who would have time to look him over as the huge vehicles turned the corner. He froze rigidly, his hands locked so tightly over the machine-pistol that the muzzle began to quiver. Hastily, he loosened his grip and prayed as the first tank mounted the bridge, his eyes staring ahead at the opposite wall. When the vehicle drew level with his position his eyes were fixed at a point on the lower turret and he was conscious of the figure above. The tank moved past, went round the corner, picked up speed. He let out the breath he had been unaware he was holding and wondered how much more of this he could stand. The second one was coming over now…

In times of danger Penn had learnt to practise a little mental exercise which he called to himself ‘putting the mind into cold storage’. It involved suppressing all feeling, all normal reactions, and was in fact a temporary suspension of the brain’s activity by concentrating on one thing only: now he concentrated on his counting. He had counted the passage of twenty heavy tanks when he realized something – not one of the commanders had spared him a glance. As they came over the bridge they were far too concerned with getting their tank round the corner to bother about a sentry whose presence they accepted as part of the night landscape. Penn even reached the stage where he welcomed the arrival of a tank because he had discovered that the trucks of motorized infantry were far more dangerous. The first one to arrive gave him a frightful shock. As the headlights passed beyond him he was able to see it clearly – a replica of the one he had blown up with the two-pounder. The truck drove forward slowly and from under the rim of his helmet Penn saw the officer sitting beside the driver in his cab. The officer looked sideways at Penn, then the cab was past. Without warning the open back presented itself to Penn, a back crammed with helmeted German infantry nursing their weapons. A sea of blank faces stared out at him as the truck back-fired at the corner and almost stopped. For God’s sake keep moving, keep moving! The truck went round the corner and vanished. His hands were so wet now that he had difficulty in holding the weapon straight. Count, keep on counting. Nothing else matters but counting. He wiped his hands quickly on his greatcoat. Another truck now. The same frowning glance from a peak-capped officer, then the sea of staring faces at the back of the truck. He could do without any more of those. Send me some more tanks, please. He almost giggled at the thought and his own reaction bothered him. Was the fearful strain driving him round the bend? Watch it, another damned truce As the vehicle disappeared he heard Barnes’ voice from behind the parapet at his back.

‘Keep it up, Penn. You’re a bloody marvel.’

Hearing Barnes’ voice made him feel better: it counteracted the dreadful feeling of being mercilessly exposed to the enemy. And it can’t be all that much fun down there, he thought. It’s probably even worse not being able to see what’s going on. He began counting again. Half an hour later, as though his nerves had not already been shredded, battered to a jelly, and then shredded again,’ fate decided to turn the screw tighter, to take him to breaking-point and then beyond to a region of terrified desperation he could never have dreamt existed, and the trial came without warning.

The truck approached the bridge like its predecessors, the headlights catching him briefly in the face. It rode up over the slope and passed him, first the cab with the officer and then the open back with its huddle of staring faces. As it started to turn the corner it back-fired explosively again and again. The vehicle slowed down, its engine coughing and spluttering unpleasantly although it still took the truck forward. Penn could hear the driver fighting to keep the engine going and for a few seconds it throbbed perfectly. Then the awful coughing started again and the truck turned off the road, its headlights beamed directly on the copse. Driving forward a few yards farther into the field it stopped.

In a daze of horror Penn watched men jumped down from the back and begin to walk about the field. An officer and a soldier, undoubtedly the driver, had the bonnet up and they were peering inside at the engine. The sentry Barnes killed, Penn thought grimly, must have some chums in this division and they could be outside that truck. How long would it be before a soldier came over to him? Even in the face of this new nightmare Penn realized what was happening as the next tank came over the bridge. Every vehicle must have the same instructions – in the event of a possible breakdown they had to get off the road at all cost. Whatever happened they mustn’t impede the movement of the Panzers. And this lot could quite easily still be here by daylight.

‘Penn!’ Barnes hissed the name from behind the parapet. ‘I know what’s happened. Just keep still. They may get that truck moving in a minute…’

He broke off as another tank crossed the bridge, pressing himself flat against the wall so that it was impossible for the commander in the turret to spot him.

‘Penn, I’m right behind you with one of their own machine-pistols if the balloon goes up. Don’t move – just…’

The rest of his words were lost as another tank clattered by, but knowing that Barnes was waiting behind the wall gave Perm’s morale a desperately needed boost. He gripped the machine-pistol tighter. If this was it, well this was it and there was nothing he could do except to keep up the masquerade to the bitter end. Several of the men from the truck were moving closer to the road and the officer and the driver were still bent double over the engine. If they didn’t get it started pretty soon some of the waiting troops were going to cross the road to come and have a chat with him. He saw one soldier start to cross, then headlights flared and a truck swept over the bridge too quickly, pulling up at the corner with a squeal of brakes; gunning the engine as it navigated the corner. The soldier had stepped back on to the grass and stood there hesitantly. Something had to give soon.

Barnes had left the wall behind Penn and now he was scrambling up the southern bank, the bank nearest to the oncoming column. His hands were torn to pieces, covered in congealed blood from earlier struggles with the brambles, the congealed blood in its turn covered with a film of fresh blood so that both palms were sticky with gore and damp with sweat. He reached the top and fell flat as another vehicle arrived, waiting until it had passed before he parted the branches of a shrub, sucking in breath quickly at what he saw. They were almost too late. He scrambled down the bank again, picked up his machine-pistol from the path, plunged into the river, and climbed the other side. He waited until the next tank had crossed and then spoke rapidly.

‘Penn, only four more vehicles to come – and the last two are probably motor-cycles.’

‘I think that truck in the field is leaving…’

‘I know, I heard them starting the engine. Now listen. You let two more vehicles pass and then you get down here like a bat out of hell when I tell you.’

‘But the truck in the field…’

‘Shut up!’

It was going to be a damned close thing, Barnes knew that. He was peering round the end of the bridge where he could watch the truck. Soldiers were climbing into the back and the officer and the driver were inside the front cab. The last patrol at the rear of the column would be stopping on the bridge to collect Penn and they would have to deal with that patrol, but everything depended on the truckload of soldiers in the field driving away in time so that they had the bridge to themselves, and Barnes realized that the timing was going to be split-second. All the troops were aboard now, the tail-board had been pulled up. The truck started to turn in a half-circle. Another vehicle went over the bridge, an armoured car. One more to come. The truck was driving forward towards the road, bumping across the uneven field at a painfully slow pace. Would it slip on to the road before the next vehicle drove past, the last one before the patrols arrived? He gripped his machine-pistol firmly, his mind on edge for the lightning decision he would have to take within the next sixty seconds. The truck reached the edge of the road and paused to make sure that the way was clear. Barnes watched it grimly – that truck was the real enemy, the enemy which could mean the difference between life and death for his unit. It seemed reluctant to depart, almost as though the driver sensed that there was some unfinished business to attend to here. A thought flashed into his head and he hoped to heaven they were not about to die by mischance – the mischance that the officer in the cab would decide to collect the sentry himself. Then the truck turned on to the road and drove off as an armoured car came over the bridge, skidded round the corner, and followed the truck along the road to Fontaine. Barnes jumped up.

Term! Now!’

He grabbed Penn’s arm as he came round the end of the bridge and hustled him along the bank.

‘Down behind these bushes. Whatever happens, don’t open fire unless you’ve got to. The first patrol will probably drive on, leaving the last one to pick you up. If the first one does stop we’ll have to wipe them out and then deal with the second one.’

‘They’re bound to search for…’

‘Not necessarily – they may think you were picked up by one of the last trucks when they can’t find you. I’ll be over on the other side.’

Barnes ran back flat-footed to avoid tripping. He crossed the road in a sprint, ran farther along the bank and dropped down behind some bushes twenty yards back from the road. From this position he commanded the northern side of the bridge and the road beyond. With Penn facing him they would have the patrols in a crossfire, although he hoped that it wouldn’t come to that because the tail-end of the Panzer column wasn’t far enough away yet. Let them be tired, he prayed, too tired to start poking around under the bridge. Then he saw lights and the first motor-cycle and side-car arrived.

It came over the bridge at speed, braking with a snarl of exhaust, screaming round the corner explosively, then it was gone. It happened so quickly that it almost took Barnes’ breath away. Now they were only faced with the last patrol, the one which was bound to stop to pick up the sentry. He pressed himself closer to the earth, the machine-pistol stretched out in front of him, also flat on the ground to avoid any danger of light reflecting off it. He could hear the machine coming now, coming flat out as though anxious to collect the sentry and catch up the column. An impatient type. That might just help – someone who didn’t like to spend too much tune hanging around lonely bridges in the middle of the night. Through the bushes he could see the light now, blurred by the tiny branches and leaves of the bushes, a light which rushed towards the bridge. His leg muscles tensed, his hands grasped the pistol. The roar of the motor-cycle was almost on top of them, the light showing on the parapet. Then it arrived, crossed the bridge, swerved, skidded madly on the corner, recovered its balance, and raced off up the road after the column.

Barnes laughed silently, weakly, the spasm shaking his aching body. Of course! He’d got the system wrong! He must need a refresher course. The real sentry would have kept a close eye on the progress of the column and then waved down one of the last trucks to pick him up: motor-cycles had no wireless communication, no way of being told that there was a sentry ahead to be collected, and that last patrol which had gone over the bridge already carried a soldier in the side-car. All that tension, all that nerve-racking anxiety – all for nothing. He went across the road and told Penn.

‘Jolly good,’ was all Penn could find to say. ‘Anyway, now we can relax,’ he added.

‘I’m afraid not – there’s one fatal question we need the answer to before morning.’

It was half an hour before dawn and beneath the bridge the world was pitch black. Barnes switched on his torch and shook Pierre awake. The lad stirred, blinked in the glow of the beam, sat up, and ran his hands through his hair.

‘More trouble, Sergeant?’

‘No, but you seem anxious to do your bit. We are all just about exhausted and I’d like you to relieve Reynolds from guard duty if you would. It means three hours on the bridge because we won’t be moving off before seven.’

‘Certainly!’ Pierre began to lace up his shoes. ‘I am most willing to take my turn with all guard duties. I said so.’

‘We’ll see how you make out. All you have to do is to stand on the bridge and listen. Don’t assume that if a vehicle is coming it will have its lights on – and remember, it may not be coming from the south like the others. In fact, I’m more worried about them sending someone back from the north if they find out they’re one sentry missing.’

‘I will watch very carefully.’

‘At the first sight or sound of anything coming you run down here and wake me – is that clear?’

‘Perfectly.’ He reached out for the machine-pistol, but Barnes’ hand closed over the weapon. ‘I’ll need something, won’t I?’ Pierre protested.

‘Yes – your eyes and your ears. I’m not risking you letting loose at something in the dark which turns out to be a shrub instead of a crouching man. Up you go.’

Barnes waited until Pierre was climbing up to the bridge and then he ran back under the archway, crossed the river without making a sound, clambered up the opposite bank, and settled himself behind the shrub which had concealed him when he had watched the progress of the Panzer column. He was now hidden on all sides because the lower part of his body was submerged under a clump of brambles. From where he lay he could hear Pierre and Reynolds talking on the bridge, followed by, the sound of the driver slithering down the bank as he returned to the archway. After that the only noise came from the bridge itself where Pierre had begun to patrol backwards and forwards, his footfalls a soft tread in the night. Gradually, Barnes found that he was able to see the patrolling figure as a vague silhouette beyond the parapet, a silhouette completely unaware that he was being checked. By the time the false dawn began to glow in the east Barnes had come to the conclusion that Pierre would make an excellent sentry: at frequent intervals the lad paused at either end of the bridge to listen for a whole minute before he resumed his march back and forth, and once or twice he glanced over the parapet wall and looked along the river as though he feared they might be subjected to a surprise attack either upstream or downstream. Dammit, thought Barnes, he might have been trained for the job.

The real dawn was beginning to show, pale shafts of cold light low down on the horizon, when Barnes found himself in difficulties. He had lain quite still ever since he had taken up his position, putting up with an ache in his right leg which steadily grew worse, when suddenly he was subjected to an attack of cramp. Forcing himself not to move, he felt the cramp take hold, compressing and kneading the leg muscles of his calf mercilessly, to such a fierce degree that he had to dig his fingers into the ground to bear it. He was determined not to move since Pierre had now stopped at his end of the bridge, his face turned towards where Barnes lay as he watched the dawn grow stronger, and any sound would alert Pierre and warn him that he was under observation. Sweat began to trickle over Barnes’ face as he struggled with all his will-power to keep the leg flat until the pain receded, which gradually it did, and when the cramp had gone Pierre resumed his patrol, almost as though he had waited so as to cause Barnes the maximum agony.

Through the shrub Barnes could now see the field beyond which rose gently to a ridge. From his personal reconnaissance of the area shortly after they had first arrived he knew that beyond the ridge the ground fell away sharply to a lower level. It was, in fact, the one blind approach spot in the vicinity of the bridge, the one place where an enemy patrol could come close to the bridge without being observed at a distance. It was also the spot to which his eyes were now glued, and as he watched the line of the ridge grew clearer until it was sharply outlined against the dawn sky which was streaked with splashes of grey and gold, the genesis of another glorious day. Pierre had stopped again, this time on the far side of the bridge, and the absolute silence of early morning seemed uncanny, unreal, a silence that Barnes imagined he could almost hear. It was also chilly and several times he shivered as the cold penetrated his battledress and began to freeze his body, the low temperature accentuated by the presence of early morning dew which had settled on his uniform and coated his hands with a film of moisture. Beyond the ridge a spiral of white mist was rising from the ground, the curtain of vapour blurring the dawn light so that he could almost convince himself that there was movement behind the mist. A few minutes later he detected human movement beyond the ridge.

Gradually, the vague figure moved higher up the ridge and then stood stock still. Barnes tensed, fingers closing over the revolver in his right hand, bis eyes staring at the silent figure half hidden in the mist so that it was impossible to identify the clothes it wore. The figure was two-dimensional, without depth, faintly outlined against the light behind it until the mist swirled away and he saw that it was the upper half of a soldier wearing a greatcoat and a pudding-shaped helmet. He could hear Pierre crossing the bridge again and then the footfalls ceased abruptly; when he glanced sideways Pierre had disappeared, crouched down behind the parapet wall. This will test his reflexes, Barnes told himself grimly.

The helmeted soldier remained motionless, staring in the general direction of the bridge as though he sensed danger. Now the silence was heavy and ominous, like the moment before the storm breaks. Barnes waited. Pierre waited. The German soldier waited. The soldier stood so still that he might have been a statue, and now Barnes’ attention was concentrated on two points’ – the ridge in front of him and the parapet wall to his side. Then without warning the soldier marched up to the crest of the ridge and came down the other side, a slow deliberate approach as though he had not seen anything yet but he still didn’t like the look of the bridge. He could easily be the advance guard of a patrol sent out to find out what had happened to the sentry, a patrol which had been clever enough to cross the river higher up so that they could approach the area unexpectedly from the south side in the hope of taking the enemy by surprise.

He came forward holding a machine-pistol across his body, a body which stooped forward, the face blurred by remnants of dissolving mist. Barnes heard a rustle from behind the parapet where Pierre crouched, and when the rustle stopped the only sound in the heavy stillness was the faint tread of the oncoming soldier’s boots, a tread so light that Barnes knew he was trying to walk cat-footed as he crept forward. Halfway between the ridge and the bridge he stopped, head to one side, listening. Then he began to advance again and Barnes raised himself slightly. This was it. Any second now. He heard a scrabbling sound from the bridge and Pierre stood up, his hands in the air. He was calling out as he walked forward into the open, walking more rapidly when the soldier didn’t open fire, calling out urgently. Barnes stood up, his battledress rumpled, hands by his sides, and also emerged into the open as Pierre reached a point midway between the bridge and the soldier who now swivelled his machine-pistol to train it on Barnes. Turning, Pierre saw Barnes and called out again, one hand pointing, jabbing in Barnes’ direction. He began to run towards the soldier, shouting at the top of his voice, insistently, continuously. A short distance from the helmeted figure he stopped abruptly, his voice dying away as Barnes walked briskly across the field towards the two men. Pierre had been shouting non-stop in German until he saw the face under the helmet, the face of Penn wearing the German sentry’s greatcoat and helmet.

‘You were right about this rat, then.’ Penn levelled his machine-pistol at Pierre’s stomach.

‘Strange behaviour for a Belgian patriot,’ said Barnes. ‘Very strange behaviour. He sees a German soldier come over the top and instead of calling me he runs up to him.’

Penn held the butt of the pistol under his arm, one hand still round the trigger guard while he used the other to undo the top button of his German greatcoat.

‘This thing chokes me. As you were saying – I thought he’d never react. So we’ve trapped ourselves a dirty little spy.’

‘He didn’t react at once because he thought a whole infantry platoon would be coming over the ridge behind you. My appearance on the scene jolted him into action. You made several mistakes, Pierre.’

‘What mistakes? I do not make mistakes.’ Pierre drew himself up, a sneer on his young face, making no attempt to deny the charges. He even ran his fingers through his hair to straighten it.

‘That, for one thing – you’ve an obsession with your personal appearance. After we’d shot up that truck yesterday you arrived on the scene with your hair neatly combed – and you’d just been sprawling in a ditch. No normal lad of seventeen would react like that. But a trained soldier who was fantastically conceited about his good looks might do that automatically – providing he was very tough and a bit of a bastard into the bargain. It was your lot we shot up, remember.’

Pierre’s eyes blazed and he stood very erect. ‘It was not possible to take any action at the time.’

‘No, you were biding your time till you could hand over a Matilda tank intact for inspection by your own people. And another thing – your reaction to that cemetery round the wrecked truck wasn’t right either, not for your supposed age.’

‘The German soldier is not trained to hide under bridges from the enemy.’

Penn took a step forward but Barnes restrained him with a look, his voice still mild when he spoke again.

‘Let him spit away – he’s going to be shot in a minute unless he gives us some information.’

For the first time Barnes thought he detected a flicker of fear in the staring blue eyes, eyes which looked quickly over Penn’s shoulder and then back at Barnes. He tried to speak indignantly but bis voice couldn’t quite manage it.

‘That would be murder, Barnes.’

‘You’ll address me as Sergeant, and I would remind you that since you are not wearing uniform this puts you into the category of a spy who can be shot out of hand. What is your unit, Pierre?’

‘I don’t have to answer your questions.’

‘No, that’s right, you don’t. You can be shot instead.’

‘I might be prepared to answer certain questions.’

‘That’s better. How old are you?’

‘Twenty.’

‘And still with fluff on his cheeks.’ Barnes looked at Penn. ‘Maybe they wean them late in Germany.’

Pierre clenched his hands and stood rigidly, his feet close together, a pink spot on either cheek.

‘What’s your real name, Pierre?’

‘Gerhard Seft. Sergeant Gerhard Seft.’

‘And your unit?’

Silence. Seft’s mouth was a tight line and he looked quickly over Penn’s shoulder again.

‘You haven’t seen any real war, then?’ Barnes goaded him.

Seft’s voice changed. He stiffened his shoulders and almost barked his reply as he glared at Barnes.

‘I served with the Wehrmacht in the Polish campaign. I was at Warsaw. We cut the Poles to pieces, smashed them – and I was there!’

‘Well, you really know the position of a soldier caught in civilian clothes, then.’

The German’s eyes flickered and he changed the subject quickly. ‘How did Corporal Penn get away from the bridge without me seeing him?’

‘He slipped off up the river bed while Reynolds was handing over the guard to you.’ Barnes waited for a reaction but the German said nothing, gazing back blankly as though waiting for something. ‘Seft, why did they push you out on a limb -send you in civilian clothes behind enemy lines? I want to know. Why?’

‘Because I speak perfect English and French. My mother was French.’

Had he put that last bit in to arouse sympathy, to remind his captors that he, too, was human? Barnes suspected as much; his hostility towards Seft grew. His voice was harsher now.

‘Where does this road lead to?’

‘Towards Arras – I told you.’

‘You told me a lot of bloody lies, my lad. And while we’re on the subject where have we come from?’ ‘From Fontaine, of course.’

Seft’s manner was growing more confident again, a trace of the arrogance returning as he realized that he wasn’t going to be shot out of hand. ‘From Fontaine?’ queried Barnes. ‘Try that one again, too.’

‘But he’s right there,’ protested Penn in surprise.

‘Is he? Did anyone in the village except Seft tell you that it was Fontaine? I thought not. The road we were supposed to have taken from Fontaine runs south-west on the map, but this road ran due south for miles before it turned south-west. And we should have passed through at least a dozen villages – instead we came across four towns and not a single village anywhere. Seft’s game was to lead us deeper into German-held territory until he got the chance to hand over Bert intact – and that would have been a feather in his cap. The German High Command would love to have one undamaged tank so they know exactly what they’re up against. He must have been doing his nut when Reynolds held a revolver on him while a whole Panzer division rolled by overhead. And that, Seft, was a further mistake. You were just a little too anxious to come out from cover when your lot arrived. Now, what is the name of the village you called Fontaine?’

He stood looking up at the German, his eyes half-closed. This was his first encounter with a fanatical young Nazi and he found the attitude of sneering arrogance an interesting reaction under the circumstances. It neither startled nor impressed Barnes, he simply thought that it amounted to sheer bloody stupidity. Seft spoke loudly, his voice clipped.

‘I am not permitted to reveal information which may be of assistance to the enemy. You are my enemy. Heil Hitler!’

Penn hit him across the side of the face, hit him hard with the back of his hand and the blow left a red weal across the German’s pink flesh. He took a step back as Penn snapped at him.

‘You’ve been told once, Seft, and you won’t be told again. When you address Sergeant Barnes you address him as Sergeant. Next time you forget, you’ll be minus a few teeth.’

Seft looked carefully at Penn as though memorizing his face. Then he deliberately rotated his cheeks and with an expression of supreme contempt spat on the ground. Again, Barnes’ look restrained Penn.

‘Don’t waste your strength on the lad. He’s hardly out of his diapers.’

Whether he understood the word or not the insult galvanized Seft. He stood very erect, his chin thrust forward, his voice rasping like a drill sergeant’s as he stepped forward.

‘The German Army will be here very shortly. You are standing in German-occupied territory and you are now my prisoners-of-war. Sergeant Barnes, surrender your pistol.’

Taking two more steps forward, his face flushed with uncontrollable fury, he reached out to grab at Barnes’ hand. The effrontery, the blind insanity of the manoeuvre, momentarily stunned Penn but Barnes reacted as though he had been expecting just such an attempt. Stepping backwards,.he brought up the revolver from his side and swung it in a vicious arc. The barrel smashed against Seft’s left temple and the blow was so powerful that the revolver almost leapt out of his hand. He took another step sideways as the German fell forward and slumped to the ground, his arms stretched out beyond his head, his fair hair all over the place. Barnes bent forward, felt the neck artery, and then looked up at Penn.

‘The fool’s dead. Just as well – we can’t afford to be lumbered with prisoners at this stage.’

‘He must have been stark raving bonkers.’

‘He’s a fanatic who thought he could get away with anything, but not completely bonkers. Take a look over your shoulder. I think Seft must have spotted them earlier than I did.’

A long way off to the south, where the road was now clearly visible in the early morning sunlight, Penn saw a thin trail of toy-like vehicles moving up the road towards them. The rear of the column was hidden behind a rise in the ground but more and more vehicles were appearing as the column advanced steadily forward. Barnes spoke grimly.

‘I’ll check with my glasses but that’s another Panzer column on the way, bet your life on it. So that route’s barred. And if we head back to so-called Fontaine we’ll run into the other lot.’

‘What the hell are we going to do? We’ll never get away with it a second time.’

‘Get out of here with Bert as fast as we can by the only route still open to us.’