Tramp in Armour

FOUR Friday, May 24th

At 4.30 AM they were fleeing for their lives. Moving at five miles an hour lie tank emerged from under the bridge and drove along the river bed between the high bramble-covered banks like a monster metal barge sailing downstream. Standing up in the turret, Barnes was enormously relieved to find that he couldn’t see over the tops of the banks which were two or three feet above his head, so that meant the enemy couldn’t see them either. As they left the bridge behind he looked back to make sure that the tracks weren’t leaving traces of their passage, but apart from a muddying of the water there were no traces to give them away. Ahead, the river ran almost straight for about a hundred yards and then it disappeared round a bend. They had to reach that bend and get round it before the advance elements of the Panzer column reached the bridge. He rated the chances of success a good deal less than fifty-fifty, but it was their only hope of survival.

About halfway from the bridge to the bend a line of trees covered the banks on both sides, their branches spanning the river to form a tunnel of foliage which roofed in the water below, and it was so dark inside the tunnel that he couldn’t see the river clearly. If it suddenly went deeper, they’d be finished anyway. Behind him the fording flap was closed down over the rear air outlets so now Bert was amphibious – amphibious, that was, in up to three foot six of water. He looked down at the grisly load roped on the back of the tank and hoped that they hadn’t left their departure too late.

Their departure from the bridge had been held up by the necessity of disposing of the two bodies – the sentry’s and Seft’s – and since he was determined to leave nothing near the bridge which might arouse suspicion and provoke a search, he decided that the only safe thing to do was to bring the bodies with them. The bodies were now lying, on the engine covers at the rear of the hull, attached to the turret by separate ropes.

The greatest danger was the motor-cycle patrols which he had seen through his glasses moving ahead of the column. They would follow the same procedure as the previous column, he felt sure of that. A patrol would arrive, halt to drop a sentry, and then drive on. The sentry would move on to the centre of the bridge and look straight down the river. Barnes looked down the river: yes, it was a good hundred yards to that bend. And there were other things to worry about. Driving a tank along the bed of a river, even a comparatively straight river, is not the easiest of manoeuvres, and he was constantly talking into the mike to guide Reynolds’ progress between the banks. They might just make it, so long as the river bed remained firm. From his elevated position he strained his eyes desperately to see the ground ahead under the water, searching for any sign of a large area of mud or softness or, worse still, a threat of rapids. And then there was "always the chance that the engine might stall, leaving them in full view of the approaching Germans. He put that thought out of his head quickly as Penn climbed up to join him.

‘Think we’ll make it?’ Penn asked him quietly.

‘If we can get round that bend in time.’

‘Can’t we get up a bit more speed – we’re crawling.’

‘Deliberately. This isn’t the Great North Road, you know, and I’m bothered about the river bed – it’s getting deeper.’

The water level was rising up the tracks quickly and he guessed the depth at over two feet. Three foot six was the maximum Bert could take. At the same time the river banks were closing in so that Reynolds barely had half a foot clearance on either side. The tracks ground forward, sloshing through the water, rattling over unseen rocks, grinding up mud discolouration, sinking deeper and deeper below the surface. Penn pulled a face as Barnes glanced back at the bridge.

‘Must be three feet at least now.’

‘All of that,’ Barnes said tightly.

They were halfway between the bridge and the tunnel of trees when a new anxiety assailed them – the sound of a plane. From the light-toned beat of the engine Barnes guessed that it was a small plane and it was flying very low. The Panzer column was using a spotter plane to check the ground ahead, which meant that the pilot would be searching every inch of countryside below him. If that plane flew over the river they were bound to be seen. Barnes could visualize it all clearly -the plane circling overhead while it wirelessed back to command HQ, the arrival of heavy tanks on both banks – in front, behind, above them. Then the remorseless shelling at point-blank range until Bert was reduced to a shattered hulk. It looked as though he’d taken them straight into a death-trap. He spoke into the mike.

‘Driver, increase speed by five miles an hour. Follow my instructions exactly. You’re too close to the left bank…’

The tunnel of trees still seemed a terribly long way off, and that tunnel could hide them from the plane if only they reached it in time. The sound of the plane’s engine was very close and it was flying lower. It had probably spotted the bridge and was coming in to reconnoitre the whole river area intensively. At that moment the tank almost collided with the right bank and Barnes corrected Reynolds sharply, which wasn’t fair because although the driver’s head was poked up through the hatch and he had a clear view ahead, his vision was limited at the sides and he couldn’t see the edges of the banks. The plane was losing even more height, Barnes could tell from the engine sound.

‘This is going to be dicey,’ Penn remarked.

‘Keep an eye on the bridge, will you? I want to concentrate on the sky from now on.’

He wanted to concentrate on several things – checking the sky, observing the bridge, watching the clearance on either side of the tank, and keeping a sharp eye on the river course ahead, but it was impossible. As usual, Reynolds was doing a marvellous job – any other driver would have stalled the engines, driven hard into the bank, committed any number of understandable errors, but Reynolds ploughed stolidly on… Barnes lurched sharply as the whole tank dropped, a really noticeable drop. Perm’s face went white and he quickly glanced down and then resumed observation of the still-deserted bridge. They must have dropped at least another foot and now they were semi-submerged under the river. The hull would soon be awash. Barnes grunted, checked the clearance on both sides, and scanned the sky. They’d have to gamble now, gamble on the desperate hope that the river stayed the same depth. That plane was almost on top of them – his hand tightened on the rim as he waited for it to flash into view. The tank rocked over an obstacle and his moist hand slipped. He , was recovering his balance, still looking up, when a roof of foliage blotted out the sky, a tangle of branches thickly covered with many layers of leaves. Above the green network the spotter plane sped across the river and continued on its course to the north.

‘So far, so good, as the man said to the girl,’ joked Penn.

‘There’s still the bridge.’

‘Not a sausage yet, not even a German one.’

Barnes looked back. The stone arch was much smaller now and it looked amazingly peaceful from inside the tunnel of trees, the sunlight showing up its white stone with great clarity. It seemed incredible that at any second the engines of war would be streaming across it on their way to a battle zone. Barnes turned round to face the front, feeling the coolness of the foliage-wrapped tunnel on his face, and his heart leapt into his mouth. Their road was blocked.

The light was dimmer inside the tunnel, which was why he hadn’t spotted the obstacle – in the very centre of the river, barely ten yards ahead, a giant boulder projected-from the water. The rock was black and pointed at the summit, its nearside sheer and massive, forming an island round which the river divided into two separate channels. Bert was capable of mounting a vertical obstacle two feet high, but the height of the boulder was at least four feet. In the time it took the tank to move forward a couple of yards Barnes considered the alternatives: climbing it was out of the question; ramming it could be suicide – they’d stall the engine or damage the hull; by-passing the obstacle by driving Bert out of the river and along the bank slope would be near-suicide. But the third alternative was the only possible one so he immediately began issuing warnings and instructions to poor Reynolds who was now being asked to overcome the insuperable. The operation called for no less than taking the tank from the river bed up on to the steep slope and then endeavouring to pass above the boulder with the vehicle tilted at a precipitous angle high above the river. Penn listened with a drawn face until Barnes had completed his preliminary instructions and when he spoke his voice was strained.

‘Can we manage that? You could topple us over sideways.’ ‘It’s the only way – we’ll have to manage it. Keep a sharp lookout on that bridge.’

‘Well,’ said Penn lightly, ‘it’s a good job we’ve got plenty of time.’

‘Do watch that damned bridge, Penn.’ Penn hadn’t taken his eyes off the bridge except for the brief downward glance when the tank had dropped precipitately, but at the moment Barnes was in no mood for his corporal’s pleasantries. They were very close to the boulder and the closer they came the-more immovable it appeared. Yes, the only way was up the bank and along its side. Reynolds commenced the manoeuvre under Barnes’ watchful eye, braking the left track so that the right one turned the tank towards the bank. As they left the water and mounted the left-hand slope a spasm of alarm ran through Barnes: the bank was much steeper than it had appeared. Instead of the undergrowth sinking several feet under the tank’s weight it flattened down no more than a foot, enormously increasing the hazard because when Bert tried to move along the slope parallel to the river it would be like a cyclist riding up the wall of death. We could topple sideways, Penn had suggested. Well, Barnes knew what the likely result of that would be for the men in the turret: they would end up on the river bed and twenty-six tons of dead-weight tank on top of them. The tracks moved forward, the tank inched up the slope, and then began to turn which could prove quite fatal. Reynolds had braked the right-hand track and now the revolutions of the other track slowly swung the massive weight round on its axis, then he stopped briefly. The tank was parallel to the river below, the turret tilted out over the water, tilted so steeply that Barnes and Penn had difficulty in keeping their balance and their bodies were perched at an acute angle. Now for it.

They were all only too aware that even the slightest error of judgement would take the tank over sideways, and that even if they survived, which was unlikely, Bert would land on the bed of the river flat on his back like a helpless beetle, his tracks churning the air. And to Barnes it was quite clear that it all hinged on a few degrees of tilt; even a few extra pounds of weight on the right-hand side could be sufficient to start the fatal sideways topple. He gave the order. The tank began its forward movement. Foot by foot the tracks advanced, clutching at the earth below the undergrowth, and no one spoke, no one moved, every nerve end geared to the painfully slow revolutions of the steel tracks. They were beginning to creep past the huge boulder below when the crisis came. Barnes saw the left-hand track start to lift gently, increasing the tilt by several degrees. His hand gripped the turret rim as he took his decision. The bodies of Seft and the sentry were sliding over the engine covers to the right – he saw that when he glanced over his shoulder – and those bodies were adding well over twenty stone to their dead weight. Literally, dead weight, he thought grimly.

‘Penn, cut those ropes – quickly!’

Reacting instantly, Penn pulled out his sheath knife and nervously leaned down over the back of the turret, being particularly careful not to lean sideways. The ropes were taut with the weight of the slithering bodies and he sawed rapidly, his nerves so keyed up that he observed each strand giving way until the rope, thinned to a few strands, suddenly snapped of its own accord. Seft’s body rolled off the sloping hull and fell with a great splash into the channel of water alongside the boulder. Penn was so preoccupied in trying to watch the bridge while he cut through the second rope that he never even saw the first body land, but Barnes had a quick glimpse of the corpse sinking below the surface before he switched his gaze back to the front tracks. They were pressing down the undergrowth slowly, like an animal feeling its way across treacherous ground, and he knew that even the merest extra lift could unhinge Bert’s precarious balance.

On his jacked-up seat in the nose of the tank, Trooper Reynolds was drawing on all his experience of the engines as he desperately tried to judge just how slowly he could keep moving without a fatal stalling of the motors, because if that happened he was sure that even the vibrations of re-starting the engines might well tip them into the river, and this was an experience that no training had prepared him for. Only his intimate knowledge of the tank’s structure and idiosyncrasies could pull the trick if anything could. For several minutes Barnes had not spoken a word, knowing that words were useless and that he must leave it entirely to Reynolds to perform this diabolical operation. They were three-quarters of the way past the boulder when Barnes saw the upper track move against a clump of brambles, but instead of pressing them down the track began to climb as it mounted some unseen obstacle beneath the undergrowth. Here we go, Barnes told himself. He prepared to shout to Penn to jump, knowing that he had to stay on board himself because Reynolds wouldn’t have a dog’s chance of scrambling up out of the hatchway in time. The track was still climbing, but Bert still clung limpet-like to the side of the bank, poised at an impossible angle. Then Barnes felt the wobble as the tank began to heel over. At that moment Penn sawed through the final strands of rope and the sentry’s body broke free, toppling off the hull into the river. The wobble stopped, the upper track savagely trampled down undergrowth and dropped at least six inches to lower ground. They had recovered their balance. Penn’s voice was breathless.

‘Thought we were going, then. Two passengers couldn’t stand the strain – they got off.’

‘I think you were just in time, but we’re not out of the wood yet. Any sign of the Panzers?’

‘Bridge still like a picture postcard. Can’t last like this much longer.’

‘No, it can’t. Keep watching.’

They weren’t out of the wood yet because now Reynolds was faced with a fresh manoeuvre which promised to be at least as tricky as the one.’ he had just completed. The upper track was still moving forward over the smooth slope so Barnes decided that they’d better get on with it before that track started to climb again. And they had passed the boulder now. He gave instructions and then waited, watching intently without saying another word to Reynolds. Again, it was strictly the driver’s baby.

To move back down to river level Reynolds had to brake the right-hand track, keeping the upper track churning so that it revolved the tank on its own axis to face down the bank at an oblique angle. Here again there was ample opportunity for a fatal mistake: it was not only a topple that Reynolds feared, he was frightened that the revolutions of the upper track might cause a side-slip. He paused to wipe his clammy hands on his trousers and then firmly gripped the steering levers, knowing that Barnes was relying on him to pull it off. The upper track speeded up and they began to turn. Reynolds handled the manoeuvre largely by feel, handled it magnificently, although in his own estimation he lost a few marks when Bert slithered the last yard or two and flopped into the water with a thunderous splash, but he redeemed himself in his own eyes by missing the far bank as he completed the second turn. The tank now faced downstream again. Barnes spoke quickly.

‘Well done. Now, drive like hell…’

Reynolds accelerated, the tracks churned up the water into a cauldron as the tank surged forward, pushing the river out of its way, heading non-stop for the bend which was now so close. South Pole or bust, he told himself, and increased speed more still. He could see part of the way round the bend now, could see that it turned gradually so there was no need to slow down. Instead, he speeded up! In the turret two pairs of eyes stared back at the distant bridge which was still deserted, the stone intensely white in the sunlight. Barnes turned to see how close they were to the bend, shouted a warning to Penn, and two heads ducked down inside the turret. They heard the crack of the overhanging branch as it broke against the metal. When Barnes lifted his head Penn was already standing upright as he observed the bridge, his knuckles white with tension as he gripped the turret. They felt the tank veering under them as it entered the bend, saw the bank on their right gradually screening the bridge from view until it vanished together. Ahead, Barnes saw another long stretch of river still hidden under the tunnel of trees. They had made it.

Less than half an hour later, as though their shattered nerves had not already been tested almost beyond endurance, a new crisis burst upon them. German tanks were approaching from downstream.

They had halted Bert a hundred yards or so beyond the bend, had climbed the southern bank to catch their first sight of the advancing column they had so narrowly escaped, arriving at the top in time to see the first motor-cycle patrol reach the bridge. Because of the bend in the river they could see clearly across open fields to the bridge and Penn gulped as he peered through the trees: the cycle had stopped in the very centre of the bridge while a soldier dismounted from the sidecar, and even at that distance Perm felt quite sure that the sentry was staring clear down the stretch of river they had just negotiated.

‘God!’ Penn gasped. ‘That was closer than the shave I didn’t get this morning.’

‘Which reminds me,’ Barnes replied, ‘we’ll have to clean up as soon as we get the chance.’

He focused his glasses and the bridge came up to him – the sentry walking to the northern side, gazing down over the parapet, making his way down through the brambles to check under the bridge before the column arrived. Yes, it had been damned close. He swivelled the glasses and the twin circles ran along the column – stubby armoured cars, squat self-propelled guns, heavy tanks with their deadly barrels pointed up the road. The lot, in fact. He began counting, recording the count cryptically in his notebook, a form of shorthand which only he could decipher, adding it to the notes he had already made under the bridge when he had recorded the composition of the previous column while he waited to wake up Pierre for his test watch.

Behind them Reynolds had stayed with the tank which was now resting in mid-stream like a strange steel island, the sunlight forming a patchwork of shadow across the hull where it penetrated the overhead foliage, foliage which was still dense enough to mask them from any spying plane which might fly over. The river was shallower at this point so the water flowed past no more than three feet up the sides of the vehicle, but it was also much wider and there was now a good three foot of clearance on either side. For Reynolds, who was seizing the opportunity for a little maintenance, it was more like scrambling about on the deck of a boat. Since he was over twelve feet down below the level of the banks he didn’t hear the menacing rumble of the Panzers, a sound like the distant chunter of a concrete-mixer.

Under the trees Barnes made a further note while Penn stood with his arms folded as he asked his question.

‘What happened to the bodies when they went in? I was too busy trying to observe the bridge at the time, you may remember.’

‘They both sank – they’ve probably floated miles downstream by now.’

He finished his note and frowned. The throb of powerful engines and the clattery grind of tank tracks drifted across the field as a muddled purr, but his acute hearing had detected a different sound. No, the same sound, but from a different direction. As he turned his head Penn noticed the movement.

‘What’s up?’

‘Quiet.’ He looked across the fields to his right. About half a mile away the ground sloped up gently to a low ridge so that the area beyond was hidden from view. Was there another road beyond that ridge? The sound of approaching engines was more distinct now, distinct enough for Penn to hear them.

‘Not another lot?’ He groaned in mock despair, but his feelings of despair were real enough, and he hadn’t yet recovered from his ordeal on the bridge during the night, to say nothing of that mind-breaking experience when Barnes had taken the tank up the bank and past the boulder. It was not yet 6 am and Penn’s morale was at its lowest in the early hours, on top of which he was unshaven, unwashed, and unfed. There had been no time even to have a drink of water since they had left the bridge and now he was hungry and thirsty and his stomach was full of wind.

‘I’d better take a look,’ said Barnes eventually. ‘You stay here and keep on counting – start with that tank just coming up to the bridge now.’

‘If it’s Panzers coming up the river, they’re bound to spot us.’

‘Just wait here.’

Barnes was away for fifteen minutes, although to Penn it was more like an hour, and since he had loaned his watch to Barnes there was no way of checking the passage of time. Glumly, he went on with his counting, half bis mind on making notes while the other half listened to the distant throb of engines downstream. We’re caught in a pincer movement, he was thinking, trapped between two columns of the bastards. It was bound to happen, our luck’s run out… He turned as he heard a trampling of undergrowth and Barnes came up the bank behind him.

‘It’s Panzers, all right. About a hundred yards farther on there’s another bend with a bridge just round the corner. It carries a road behind that ridge and there’s another column going over the bridge – probably to protect the flank of this lot.’

‘We’re the meat in the sandwich.’

‘Something like that. It’s a good job we stopped here instead of pushing on downstream – we’d have run into them, or they’d have seen us after we’d passed the bridge. The river goes through open country just beyond there. And they’ve posted a sentry, of course. The chap was looking this way when I had a dekko through some trees.’

‘So we just sit tight?’ Penn made a note in the book Barnes had left him. ‘I could do with a drop to drink before you start counting again.’

‘I’ll get your bottle from the tank.’

Barnes turned to make his way down the bank and froze.

Something had just floated downstream past the tank, a misshapen object which was now picking up speed in the current. Reynolds hadn’t seen it because he had an engine cover up and was kneeling on the hull with his back to the near-side channel, but Penn had spotted it and he swore foully.

‘That’s the sentry’s body – that German on the next bridge will see it.’

‘You stay here!’

Barnes stumbled and slithered his way down the slope and then started to run along the overgrown bank side as though all the devils in hell were after him. He ran flat-footed, hammering bis feet down and then lifting them straight up again to try and avoid tripping over the brambles which snared his path, and as he ran black despair threatened to smother his mind. Of all the bloody bad luck. It had all seemed so simple up to this moment: all they had to do was to keep their heads down and remain out of sight until the Panzers on both roads had dis-appeared to the north. And now this. It was like a drowning man within an ace of the shore suddenly feeling himself swept up by an ebb-tide. And the tide of the river was carrying their safety away from them in the form of the dead sentry’s body. What the hell could have happened? It must have got caught on something and then later the current had freed it again. Barnes could have wept; instead, he kept on running, watching the ground but continually glancing up to see the progress of the corpse which was so clearly that of a German soldier.

The body was face down in the water but the shoulders and back arid legs were well above the surface, exposing the jacket and trousers of, a German infantryman, and it wouldn’t take some bright officer too long to wonder why this had appeared now on a stretch of river between two bridges being crossed by the Wehrmacht. He increased speed, took several paces forward, and fell flat on his face. Scrambling up again he hardly noticed the tear and rip of the thorns as they re-opened recent wounds, but he had fallen sideways on his right shoulder with a heavy thump and he did notice the sharp throb of his wound which immediately started up again. Swearing briefly, he ran on desperately. He had to reach that corpse before it swept round the bend and flowed on in full view of the sentry on the bridge, a sentry who had been looking this way. He fell flat again, his foot trapped by ropes of bramble, dragged himself to his feet, began running and then stopped. The floating body was approaching the bend, still drifting in the centre of the river. It was now or never. He threw off his battledress tunic, tore off his boots, and dived in.

The chill of the water took his breath away but he ignored the shock and began swimming rapidly downstream, his arms flashing through the water, his body shooting forward under a momentum which was increased by the flow of the current. While stationed in India as a professional soldier before the war Barnes had been champion swimmer in the division but he broke all records now, swimming as though his life were at stake, which it probably was – and the lives of two others. Under his shirt the wound was throbbing steadily, sucking away his energy when he needed it all for just the next few minutes. He swam with his teeth clenched, knowing that he was beginning to overtake the corpse. Foot by foot the gap closed, and foot by foot the bend came closer. He was only a few yards behind the floating body when his leg hit a rock under the surface, the blow sending an agonizing pain from his kneecap to his thigh. It stopped him for a second, then he was swimming on, his eyes fixed on the bend which was almost on top of him, the corpse still several yards ahead. The hump of German uniform picked up a little speed, bobbing slightly as it swept round the bend in full view of the bridge. He hadn’t made it.

He had a quick glimpse – the curved bridge, the low parapet, the sentry on the far side, his back turned. Barnes took a deep breath and dived under, swimming now almost along the bed of the river, thrusting forward with powerful strokes until he saw a grey mass above him, barely one foot above him. He reached up with one arm, grabbed the body round the middle, hauled downwards with all his strength, feeling he was trying to drag down a ton-weight. It came down suddenly, rolling over sluggishly, and now his arms tried to swim two men. The bridge was very close to the bend but the distance seemed endless as he swam forward while the body tried to take on a life of its own, threatening at any moment to slip from his grasp. As he fought to retain control he was keeping a close eye upwards for the first sign of a change in the light which would warn him he was going under the bridge, and at the same time he was fighting his bursting lungs, his teeth a tight trap to hold back the carbon dioxide, to force his lungs to hold out just a few seconds longer as he felt the blood pumping like a steam-hammer. No sign of a light change yet. He began to expel air, saw a shadow on the water surface, heaved upwards, broke surface under the bridge, blew out, took in oxygen as he threshed to the bank and grabbed at it with one hand.

A tank was crossing the bridge, he could hear the steel rumble, so no one would hear him threshing about. He clung on to the bank with his left hand while the right pinioned the sentry. Now for the rough part – getting out. The tank had gone, so he waited. When the next one approached he started to climb out and then he had the devil’s own job hauling out the sodden body which seemed suddenly to have increased its weight ten-fold, at one point almost dragging Barnes himself back into the water as he lay face down in brambles while he struggled to heave the leaden burden up over the edge, both his arms wrapped round the waist and his hands locked together to make quite sure that it wouldn’t slip back and float into view at the last moment. It was a grisly task and it became even more grisly when he succeeded in hoisting the corpse on to the bank because it rolled and he rolled with it, lying for a moment flat on his back with the sentry almost on top of him, sodden, dripping with water, its face close to his, the hair plastered flatly over the white skull.

He waited until another tank arrived and then he worked furiously to push the body deep inside a jungle of brambles, treating it like a sack of cement as he finally jerked the legs and bent them to thrust them after the rest of the corpse. The bridge he now lay under was much smaller than the one higher up, wide enough only to take single-line traffic, and the footpath had disappeared altogether long ago when the brambles flourished and took over the whole bank up to the stone wall. There, he’d done it. No one would find the sentry unless they searched for him and by now Barnes was becoming familiar with German bridge procedure: they checked underneath it before the column arrived but they certainly wouldn’t come poking around down here a second time. Not unless he attracted attention.

Barnes was temporarily exhausted, the wound playing him up badly now, his kneecap aching steadily, his hands and face scratched to blazes with the ripping of the brambles. He lay quite still for several minutes, his revolver in his hand, although whether the weapon would work after its soaking was anybody’s guess. He listened to the column rumbling past overhead and gradually he revived, his mind revolting at the thought that he was back to square one again. When he cautiously peered through the far side of the arch he saw the long shadow of the sentry above him spread over the upper bank, the top half of his body, the pudding-shaped helmet absurdly stretched out. The bastard was on the right side of the bridge -downstream – and Barnes had had a bellyful of being cooped up under bridges. He decided to risk it. And Penn would be doing his nut if he didn’t get back soon. The real danger was that his swimming form might be spotted under the water before he reached the bend, but the river here was about four feet deep so he’d just have to swim with his face on the bed. Because a tank commander erect in bis turret has an elevated view Barnes waited until one of the vehicles had moved across the bridge and then he took a deep breath, slipped back into the river noiselessly and began swimming upstream along the river bed.

This time he was going to swim the distance in two stages, pausing halfway along the stretch under the lee of the bank where long grasses trailed into the water. In fact, swimming as he was now against the current, he was going to have to take two bites at the cherry, a favourite Penn phrase for seeing the same girl twice. His face close to the flat-rocked bed, he was having to swim all-out to make headway against the current which was stronger than he had expected; he began to veer in close to the bank, expelling air slowly, bis eyes gazing ahead for underwater boulders as soft mushy weeds brushed against his face unpleasantly. When he reached the bank and surfaced behind the trailing grasses he found that he had covered half the distance. He stood crouched against the bank, his nose just above the water, watching the approach of yet another German tank, and it was rather like observing it through a green bead curtain, his first close-up look at the weapon which was sweeping across the plains of France in an annihilating wave.

As he waited hunched under the bank his mind raced over the problems ahead: taking Bert downstream when the coast was clear was something they might just manage in this depth, and beyond the bridge he could leave the river where the banks came lower, a fact he had observed from under the bridge. The tank was crossing now, the commander leaning out of the turret to check clearance. Once we get away from this lot, Barnes thought, we’ll head west-south-west: in spite of Seft’s deception he was confident that he had a rough idea of where they were because he had found two places on the map which could correspond to the fictitious Fontaine. And west-southwest should lead in the general direction of Arras. The tank had crossed now. He slipped under the water.

He was immediately aware that his movements were slower, that his strokes lacked thrust, so he redoubled his efforts, determined that this time he must get round that bend or else he was going to be spotted. He had pushed his luck to the limit and far beyond, so whatever happens, keep going, he told himself, for God’s sake keep going. In his anxiety to succeed he took a short cut, veering to the left to take himself straight for the turn in the river, seeing a forest of trailing weeds ahead and projecting himself through the diabolical mess. He was almost through when he felt a tug above his right kneecap, the one he had injured, and when he endeavoured to swim forward he remained anchored to the spot where the weeds had twined themselves round him. Pausing for a split second, he lunged out savagely, felt the weed stranglehold tighten, and he didn’t move forward an inch. He was running out of air: the only thing to do was to surface. He made to swim up and the grip tightened like the tentacles of an octopus. You can’t drown in four feet of water, Barnes. But you can, you know – if your upper leg is locked down tight close to the bed. A tremble ran through his brain and transferred itself to his body as he felt panic rising. Grimly, he fought down the emotion and concentrated on freeing his damned leg. Think it out, quickly! Forward is no use – try sideways, out into mid-stream. His lungs were protesting again, building up a horrible balloon-like pressure, the water gyrating fiddly, a singing in his ears growing. He thrust out sideways, felt the weed tighten. God, he really was done for this time. Keep moving, Barnes! He made one last effort, felt the weed tearing away as though reluctant to give up its victim, then he was free, stroking his way upstream, still under water until he came to the surface choking and spluttering as he gulped in water, his head turning automatically to check his position. He was round the bend.

And if it goes on like this much longer he thought as he headed for the bank, we’ll all be round the bend. But his instinct told him that it would probably get worse.

Eight and a half hours later, at three o’clock in the afternoon and thirty miles away from the bridges, the tank was like a hunted animal, still alive but only because of the sharp eye and keen instinct for danger of its controller who had saved it on four separate occasions from detection by the hunters. At the same time the animal was still viciously armed with over seventy two-pounder shells and ten boxes of Besa ammunition secreted within its innards.

By 8.30 am the Panzers had gone from the river area and by 9 am the tank crew had shaved – at Barnes’ insistence -and they had eaten bully beef and the last of the French bread Seft had brought, which reduced their rations to a meagre quantity of remaining bully beef and nothing else: the two tins of meat Seft had supplied were found to be blown, whether by accident or on purpose didn’t matter any more, but it did mean that they were desperately short of food. They were also running low on water but this was due to an accident and an oversight which were the result of chance and fatigue-Before leaving the river they had attended to the radiator and filled a dixie with water for their own use: the accident had taken place an hour later when they mounted a steep bank into a wood to escape being spotted by a flight of Stuka bombers. The dixie had. fallen over and spilt its precious contents on the turntable floor. The oversight was the fact that only Barnes had remembered to fill his water-bottle – he blamed himself for not checking to make sure that the others had filled their own. In a word, there was now one water-bottle to quench the growing thirst of three men. Although only briefly mentioned, the thirst was the reason for a bitter argument between Barnes and Penn soon after one o’clock.

‘I think we ought to risk going in,’ Penn had said emphatically, pointing towards the town on the skyline.

‘We’ll go round it, instead – across country,’ Barnes had replied quietly.

Across the sun-baked fields, the town – another church spire and a line of buildings – had looked like a mirage as it trembled gently in the dazzling heat haze, an impression heightened by the absence of workers in the fields, although normally the farmers would have been busy at this time of the year. This absence of people troubled Barnes and strengthened his decision.

‘It is possible to get a bit too cautious,’ said Penn hotly.

‘It’s also possible to walk into something we won’t get out of. There’s no one about and I don’t like the smell of it.’

‘There’s been no one about for miles – what makes this place so ruddy different?’

‘The fact that there’s a town over there. If it’s under German occupation the locals may be lying low indoors – these are cultivated fields so there should be someone working them.’ Barnes put a foot on the hull to climb back into the tank. ‘Any more questions before we start?’

‘We’ve seen no sign of Jerry on the ground since we left the river – what makes you think he’s anywhere near here?’

‘Penn, I’ve no idea where Jerry is. From what I’ve seen and from what you told me about those radio bulletins my guess is that the Germans have torn a huge gap in the Allied lines which may be up to twenty miles wide[2] – at the moment we’re somewhere inside that gap but until I know more about it we’ll avoid all towns and villages as long as we can. We’re moving off now.’

Two hours later they were moving along a deserted country road under the furnace blaze of the afternoon sun, and during those two long hours they had stopped three times to avoid detection by aircraft, halting twice in the lee of hedges and sheltering once inside an abandoned dairy farm where they had been surrounded by empty milk churns. As they had waited for the Stuka bombers to disappear a small herd of cows had gathered behind a fence, their udders horribly swollen, their strange cries a pathetic sound which had affected them more than the distant roar of the Stuka engines. But there was no one to milk the beasts so they had gone away, thankful when Bert’s engines drowned the echoes of animal pain. It was not only people who were suffering in this war, Barnes had thought.

As they drove steadily along a hedge-lined road between a sea of empty fields which stretched away on all sides Barnes knew that he was feeling the strain, the strain of standing upright in the turret for long periods while the sun beat down fiercely on him, so fiercely that his shirt and trousers were almost as generously soaked with sweat as they had been with water when he had emerged from the river. His task of endless observation was arduous enough to test the strength of the fittest person since it involved keeping up a constant watch -on the road ahead and behind, on the landscape on both sides of the road, and above all on the sky, since they had good reason to know now that a moment’s unguarded relaxation might be punished by the sudden swoop of a Messerschmitt. But Barnes was not feeling at his strongest and a further drain on his strength was the non-stop pounding of his shoulder wound which he was finding it impossible to ignore, while at the same time he had to take his weight on the left leg because the right kneecap was badly bruised where it had struck the underwater rock. Mentally, Barnes was still functioning, but physically he was in a state.

Shading his eye against the sun’s glare he stared along the road to where a small building stood by the verge, or rather to where the relics of a building stood. It must have received a direct hit from shell or bomb. But what caught his attention was a pole which spanned the road outside the wreckage, a red and white striped pole. He spoke into the mike.

‘The frontier’s dead ahead. We are just about to cross the border into France.’

He could see now that the Customs post beside the pole had camouflaged the existence of a gun position, a gun position which had been completely wiped out. The 75-mm barrel lay by itself and several French helmets were scattered across the ground, but there were still no German helmets to indicate that the enemy had also died. Bert rumbled forward, smashing aside the pole like matchwood. They were on French soil. When Penn asked permission to come up into the turret for a minute Barnes readily agreed. It must be like an inferno down inside the tank this afternoon.

‘Back on home ground,’ remarked Penn lightly.

‘We’re still a long way from home,’ Barnes replied grimly.

‘Any chance of a drop of mild-and-bitter?’ He meant water.

‘Not yet. We’re down to half a bottle.’

‘I do think we should have gone into that town,’ Penn said hoarsely.

‘And run into a Jerry ambush most likely. Tanks aren’t for towns – not tanks on their own roaming about behind the enemy lines. It only needs a couple of anti-tank guns at either end of the street with us in the middle and we’re finished. You should know that by now.’

‘Well, we can’t go on like this much longer. Reynolds must be near the end of his tether stuck out there in front driving on and on hour after hour.’

‘Reynolds has not complained,’ Barnes answered drily.

‘But Reynolds is a good boy.’

‘If this is going to be the quality of your conversation you’d better get back behind your gun.’

Perm clambered down into the fighting compartment without a word and Barnes immediately regretted his reply, but having said it he had to leave it. God, the strain must be telling for him to say a damned silly thing like that, but the tension was the product of strain. He reckoned it up. In twenty-four hours he had enjoyed barely two hours of uneasy sleep and Reynolds had made do with the same ration, but Penn hadn’t slept at all, and prior to that both of them had made do with four hours’ sleep a night for four nights while Barnes lay unconscious. Yes, they badly needed a safe bivouac for the night. And eight hours’ sleep. He scanned the sky again.

Inside the hull the temperature was ferocious, the air almost non-existent. Penn sat in his vest and trousers, hugging the shoulder-grip, his hand close to the trigger guard. Their experience with the lorryload of German infantry which had roared over the bridge in their faces had impressed on all of them the need for a constant state of alertness, although at this moment it was purely a reflex action with Penn to take up the position. His brain was becoming numbed, numbed with the heat, with the diesel-fuel odour, with the endless throb of the engines, with the hypnotic grind of the tracks. He had reached the stage where he was frightened he might faint and this was why he had gone up into the turret. The dizziness increased and he kept shaking his head to clear it. The thirst he was suffering from was so intense that his tongue clove to the top of his mouth and he could almost see foaming tankards of beer, wishing to God that his imagination wasn’t so strong. The tank ground on.

In the nose of the tank Reynolds wore a stolid expression. He was hot and sticky and he was thirsty, too, but they would get a drink when Barnes gave permission. In the meantime he could wait. He was neither worried nor resigned – he was just doing his job, driving Bert in accordance with instructions. He had experienced a little trouble with the monotony of the road rolling towards him on and on like a slow-motion conveyor belt which never stopped, but he countered this by glancing sideways across the fields frequently. So they were inside France now, were they? It didn’t seem to make much difference to Reynolds – one field was like another and if they hadn’t put up that pole you’d never have noticed any change. Fuel was going down, of course, but Barnes would do something about that. The tank ground on.

Water, fuel, ammunition, food. These were the basic commodities, in that descending order of priority, vital to their existence as a fighting unit, and they always loomed in the front of Barnes’ mind. They loomed large now while he was coping with his aching wound, his bruised kneecap, the heat and the thirst, maintaining all-round observation at the same time. He knew exactly what the position was – they had sixty gallons of diesel left, but the tanks at the rear of the hull had a capacity of ninety gallons; they had half a bottle of water; a meagre quantity of bully beef, sufficient for another meal, and some tea. They were stuffed to the gills with ammunition, of course. A pity they couldn’t eat that. He began to think that perhaps they had better investigate the next place they came to and he shaded his eyes to make sure that he wasn’t seeing things. No, there it was – a line of buildings on the horizon straight ahead of them. He spoke into the mike.

‘We’re approaching a town. I’ll be taking us in to have a look at the place.’

From that moment the whole atmosphere changed for the better. Glancing down inside the turret Barnes saw Penn looking up at him. The corporal grinned and winked. Even Reynolds reacted,-sitting up a little higher on his seat, straightening his shoulders, gripping the steering levers a little more tightly. It was like the approach to the promised land for them. Water, fuel, ammunition, food. If they were very lucky they might load up with everything they needed. And information, an item which Barnes was tempted to add high on his priority list. If they could only know exactly where they were what a weight off his shoulders that would be! He called to Penn to come up out of that hothouse again and the corporal almost sprinted up into the turret, his voice positively light-hearted.

‘Maybe we’ll be off the old bully beef tonight. I wonder what’s on the menu at the Restaurant de la Gare.’

‘We’re behind the German lines,’ Barnes reminded him.

‘Even so, providing their lordships aren’t in residence we may get a slap-up supper. Now, let me see, I wonder what I fancy.’

‘A bottle of water,to start with.’

‘Boeuf a la Bourguignonne with haricots verts would be acceptable. Yes, that’s it. Washed down with several bottles of vin ordinaire, of course. We can’t really afford vintage wines on Army pay, can we?’

‘Don’t count your chickens.’

‘Chickens? Well, poulet roti might do at a pinch. It’s rather plebeian, of course.’

They chattered on for several minutes and Penn’s lively banter, plus the sight of the approaching town, revived Barnes, but soon he sent Perm down into the tank again as a precaution. It would be just their luck to meet another lorryload of German infantry leaving the town. He repeated his routine, scanning the hot blue empty sky, searching the surrounding countryside for signs of danger, and all the time the tank rumbled forward, taking them even closer to the unknown town, which he now had difficulty in seeing because the road was turning and the sun shone straight into his eyes.

As the town came closer he found himself shading his eyes more frequently, straining to catch the detail of the silhouette which looked oddly still in the blazing sunlight. Once again he checked his all-round observation and then quickly looked ahead, his hand forming a peak over his eyes, his sense of unease growing. This town had been badly bombed. What he had taken for buildings from a distance on closer inspection revealed themselves as stone fa9ades of irregular shape, and now he was sure that at least half the town was in ruins. But in a place of this size there must be someone left, someone who could tell him the name. And they must find more diesel. A tank running low on fuel was a sitting duck, its second weapon – movement – immobilized. He’d better break the news to them. He spoke quietly.

‘This place looks a bit of a wreck – I think Jerry has been here before us and he dropped a few carefully placed bombs.’

They were less than a quarter of a mile from the town now, a small town of possibly about thirty thousand inhabitants he estimated. He held his hand up again, screwing up his eyes, his mouth tight. It reminded him of pictures he had seen of Ypres taken during the First World War, although the one thing he did know was that they were many miles away from that ill-fated Belgian town. Grimly, he watched the advancing silhouette.

The outskirts had been gutted, no other word for it. The walls which were still standing were windowless, the upper frames like sightless eyes enclosing clear sky beyond. Halfway down the walls the scree slopes began, slopes of rubble and debris. These were relics of buildings and there was no sign of life anywhere – no women working in the fields nearby, no men clearing the mess out of the streets. Just nothing, nothing at all. And over the devastation there hung a curious atmosphere, a horrible silence which seemed even more unnatural in the bright sunny afternoon. Water, fuel, ammunition, food…

They crawled through the outskirts at minimum speed, hearing the tank tracks grinding their way over pieces of masonry, feeling the hull drop slightly as the stone was crushed to powder. Barnes ordered Reynolds to drive down the very centre of the rubble-littered highway as he anxiously watched the spectral walls of the bombed buildings they were passing, wondering whether they should turn back at once. It was by no means certain that the vibrations of the tank movement might not bring down one of those hanging walls. Some of them seemed to stay upright by a miracle of balance. Cautiously they edged their way round a corner and drove deeper into the town.

The devastation was getting worse, no doubt about that. Whereas before many buildings had at least one wall standing they were now entering an area of almost total annihilation. Any relationship between what Barnes saw and a town could only be visualized by stretching the imagination to its limits. He calculated that an area close to a quarter square mile was a sea of rubble. The rubble was arranged in cone shapes which rose up between huge craters, a scene more like a moon landscape than a town in northern France, and the going was getting worse.

‘Driver, halt. Keep the engines running.’

He gave Penn permission to come up and climbed down to the street, resting one hand on the hull and then snatching it off as the heat seared his flesh. Changing his mind, he told Reynolds to switch off so that he could listen carefully to hear whether he could detect any sign of life; he still found it hard to believe that a town of this size had been abandoned.

‘There’s always someone who stays behind,’ he told Penn, ‘someone who tries to make the best of it.’

‘The Panzers may have been through as well,’ objected Penn.

‘But they’re not here now, are they? If they have been this way they’ll just have passed through without occupying the place – that’s the sort of thing that’s happening from what you told me about the news bulletins.’

‘But no one would stay here – just look at the place.’

‘I know, but it may not be so bad on the far side. We’ll take a look.’

‘I’d be quite happy to clear out altogether, thank you.’

Penn was voicing the feeling of all three men. There was something horribly oppressive about the deserted town, as though it had been sacked by barbarians who had taken all the inhabitants away into slavery. On the far side of the rubble sea a wall swayed gently, leaned and toppled out of sight. They heard a dull thud and saw a huge cloud of dust floating upwards. Barnes was still listening when suddenly he was galvanized into action, ordering Penn down inside the tank, warning Reynolds to close his hood, leaping up into the turret himself and ramming on his headset as he issued instructions.

The tank headed into the heart of the rubble sea, threading its way between the cones, slipping down the slope of a crater, crossing the floor and mounting the other side. They were near the centre of the area before the first planes appeared, a squadron of Stuka bombers flying low. Barnes issued the order to halt in the middle of a wide crater, went down inside the tank, slammed the lid closed and waited. The first stick of bombs fell some distance away, growing fainter as they fell farther off. Perm’s voice was bewildered.

‘Surely they couldn’t have spotted us?’

‘No, I think they were coming here anyway. I wanted us well clear of those walls.’

‘But they’ve already smashed the place to bits…’

He stopped and they listened, staring at each other. The scream was starting again, the scream of a Stuka falling into a high-speed dive before it released its deadly load. Another stick was coming, but this one was different. The first explosion was a long way off, the next one closer, the third closer still, a frightful nerve-shattering crump. Penn began conducting an unspoken conversation with himself. It will be the next one that gets us, the next one… The bomb exploded in their ears and the shock wave was like a hammer-blow. The hull of the tank shook, wobbled, settled again. Then a fifth crump farther off. A sixth, fainter still.

‘They must be stark raving bonkers.’ Penn sounded indignant, a highly strung form of indignation. ‘They did the job last time – are they running out of space to store their perishing bombs?"

‘There’s an encouraging side to this,’ said Barnes, going on quickly as he saw Perm’s expression. ‘They must have come back to make the place absolutely impassable – which looks as though they’re frightened Allied reinforcements will be moving up here soon.’

‘Glad to hear it. I feel so much better, Sergeant, now you’ve told me that.’

The scream of another plane starting its dive commenced, a plane which sounded to be directly overhead, the scream rising to a crescendo as it came down as though the machine were out of control, a scream which sent cold water down Barnes’ spine. Then the explosions came, heart-shaking crumps landing all round them, pinpointing Bert’s position. Between explosions he heard another distant sound, a heavy thump. One of the remaining walls had gone. At least he had taken them clear of those insidious hanging walls. Barnes was well aware that the majority of casualties during an air raid on a built-up area are caused by the inhabitants being buried under collapsing masonry. He glanced at Penn to see how the corporal was standing up to the bombardment and Penn looked back, deliberately quivering the ends of his moustache in mock terror.

Mock terror? Penn’s nerves were shuddering like plucked violin strings. Another bomb exploded almost on top of them and the tank rattled like a toy under the impact, fitments coming loose and falling on to the turntable. Bombing is a grim experience wherever the recipients may be hiding, but it is particularly grim for those inside a tank. Penn had an awful sensation of being exposed: the brick wall of a building may give as little protection as the 40-mm steel which protects the lower sides of a tank, but inside a building there feels to be more protection, and locked inside the Matilda the assault on the eardrums was tremendous. As Penn sat tensely the sound of the explosions seemed to slice clean through the metal skin, but once inside the hull the cannonade reverberated from wall to wall as though a ten-ton hammer were beating on the plates, setting up vibrations which shook him to the guts. While the raid proceeded he struggled to put his mind into cold storage^ as he had on the bridge when the Panzers were moving past, but now the method didn’t work. He had decided to count up to a hundred explosions, telling himself that long before he reached that figure the raid would be over, but already he had lost count and he gave it up, living now from one explosion to the next.

In the nose of the tank, locked away from the other two men, Reynolds sat huddled forward, his hands still gripping the steering levers, his brain dazed with fear. It wasn’t so much the thought of a direct hit which frightened him, because if that happened there would be nothing to worry about. Instead, Reynolds was desperately trying to forget a technical factor in the construction of Bert – the four six-volt batteries which were housed in the nose of the tank. And above all else Reynolds had a gibbering horror of being blinded. He was well aware that even a near-miss could deal the hull such a shattering blow that those batteries might burst – spilling sulphuric acid all over his face and hands. He sat there silently, waiting for the next one, cursing the man who had designed the Matilda for exposing him to this terrible hazard. Miss us or kill us, he prayed, gripping his hands even tighter as they slipped wetly on the levers. Here it comes, right in front of me. Oh God, no! The explosion battered the nose and he heard debris spatter the armoured glass beyond the slit window, then he realized he was all right this time. He still sat with his head down, facing his lap, his eyes tightly closed.

‘So far, so good,’ said Barnes, repeating Penn’s joke.

‘Yes.’

Penn spat out the word, wondering how much longer it was going to last, his imagination working at a feverish pitch as he saw so clearly what was coming – the bomb which was a direct hit. The hull would rip open, letting inside the monstrous gases which are the product of high-explosion, tearing their flesh apart, disintegrating the three men and scattering their pulped relics across the rubble. No one would ever know what had happened to them: they would simply disappear. ‘Reported missing in action…’ My God, he thought, my poor people. I was just going to write to them the day we moved across the frontier. That was how many days ago? He couldn’t work it out and he didn’t even try to any longer as the next stick came down, straddling the tank so that for a few agonizing seconds three men were convinced that they were on the verge of death.

The raid lasted fifteen minutes and during that time they were bombed almost non-stop. After a short pause they endured a series of near-misses which terrorized poor Reynolds very close to breaking-point: it was probably only the unseen presence of Barnes just beyond the plate behind him that saved the driver from opening the hatch and climbing out to escape those dreaded batteries. He had reached the stage where he was quite prepared to take bis chance out in the open. Then the second pause came, a pause which went on and on while they waited for the bombardment to start again. It was Barnes who recovered first, climbing up into the turret and cautiously raising the lid, starting to cough as soon as he had poked his head up into the dust-laden air, feeling the heat of the sun on the back of his neck. The turret rim was hot to the touch.

Many of the hanging walls were no longer there and over the whole area was suspended a pall of dust, a pall so dense that the sun was a blurred disc. He looked down and saw that the hull was coated with a film of dust as though Bert had been camouflaged to operate across a grey desert, and when he stepped down on the hull his foot slipped and he almost banged his knee again. He told both of them to get out of the tank and join him where they could breathe in the dust for themselves, but at least they were out in the open, outside the claustrophobic confines of what had so nearly become a metal coffin.

The tank stood inside an old square in the western, less-ruined sector of the town while its crew waited for the unknown intruder to make his appearance, the first sound of life they had met since entering the devastated town. The square was enclosed by hanging walls and the weird tomb-like atmosphere seemed to grow as they waited, Reynolds still in his driver’s seat, Penn standing in the turret grasping a machine-pistol, while Barnes stood next to a corner of the square with his back to a wall. Instinctively, he did not lean against it and be held the revolver across his chest so that the muzzle was aimed at the corner.

Little more than ten minutes after they had stopped inside the square for Reynolds to check the tank, Barnes’ acute hearing had detected the sounds, odd rustling sounds as though the approaching feet were scuffling furtively through rubble. The footsteps were very close now, moving more quickly. Barnes elevated his gun and at the same moment Penn aimed his machine-pistol. A man came round the corner and stopped abruptly.

Over his shoulder he carried a limp sack and for an instant his bony face expressed extreme fear, but he recovered quickly, removing a cap from his head and smiling unctuously. Small and lean, he was dressed strangely, his suit old and shabby, but round his neck he wore an expensive silk tie and Barnes caught a glimpse of a gold wristwatch before he wriggled his sleeve. His feet were encased in a pair of brand new crocodile shoes. Barnes spoke quietly.

‘Sorry we frightened you, but can you tell us the name of this place?’

‘British soldiers, yes?’

He was still smiling in a forced way and he had begun to step away from Barnes, shooting a quick glance at the tank as though he expected it to advance on him at any moment. Barnes tried again.

‘We’re British soldiers. There’s nothing to worry about – we won’t hurt you. But I would like to know the name of this place.’

He began jabbering away in French, speaking at a tremendous rate, so quickly that neither Barnes nor Penn could understand what he was saying, and as he went on talking he retreated step by step. He was close to the next corner when he lifted a hand and gestured furiously in the direction the tank had come from, waving his cap and then replacing it on his head. Barnes was walking slowly towards the tank when the man with the sack scuttled round the corner out of sight. Penn looked puzzled and sounded irritable when Barnes reached the tank.

‘Why didn’t you grab him? He could have told us…’

‘Quick, Penn – give me that machine-pistol.’

‘What

‘Hurry it up, man.’

‘Here… what’s the big idea?’

‘Both of you wait. If you hear me using this thing get a move on – but come with Bert.’

He ran to the corner, peering round just in tune to see the man leave the road as he scrambled over a heap of rubble in the distance. He followed him, running lightly on the balls of his feet and holding the machine-pistol across his chest. The man had vanished behind the wall of a building and when he reached the point where he had scrambled over the rubble he was vanishing again behind the stunted relic of a house, still without a backward glance. Barnes slowed down as he approached the house, and now he held the machine-pistol under his arm ready for instant use as he peered round the end wall, quite unprepared for what he saw.

Beyond the house was a road comparatively free of debris and standing in the road was a single-decker bus, its sides covered with dust. Four people stood outside the bus and they appeared to be arguing. The bus was empty of passengers but its interior was crammed with a motley collection of goods, and beyond the open door he saw a seat piled high with miscellaneous articles. Bottles of wine, their necks protruding from a wicker basket, some red material which might be curtains or a bedspread, an up-ended silver tray, the upper half of a small chair with a brocaded back, and an old hunting rifle with a silver-plated stock. The quartet which stood arguing were almost as strange a collection as the contents of their bus.

The bony-faced man stood on one side, putting in a word every now and again, while the other three men formed a circle, facing each other as they talked. The leader of the group appeared to be a short squat man with a swarthy complexion and a large black moustache. He wore a crumpled business suit, a dark slouch hat pushed well back over his head, and round his neck was tied a coloured handkerchief. Barnes was reminded of a Corsican he had once met in a bar at Port Said when his troopship stopped there on the way home from India. The other two men were very thin and tall and they seemed to defer to the swarthy individual when the argument became too heated; they were dressed in blue denim jackets and trousers and wore black berets pulled tightly over their heads. Barnes walked out from behind the wall, his machine-pistol aimed at the group, his voice harsh.

‘What the devil’s going on here?’

Three bodies spun round to face him, then froze. The Corsican was the first to recover and he came forward a few paces, smiling as he said something in French.

‘Talk in English,’ snapped Barnes.

The Corsican made a show of not understanding. Jabbing forward his pistol, Barnes rasped out the words.

‘Get your hands up or I’ll cut you to pieces.’

The Corsican shot up his hands, saying something quickly over his shoulder, and three more pairs of hands jumped above shoulder level.

‘I’m glad you speak English,’ Barnes commented. ‘Who are you? Come on – be quick about it.’

‘Joseph Lebrun, sir. Fur salesman from Le Cateau.’

‘What’s the name of this place?’

‘Beaucaire, sir. You are the British Army?’

‘The advance guard. That road which comes into the town from the west – where does it lead to?’

‘To Cambrai. Arras is beyond.’

God, Barnes was thinking, we’re miles farther south than I’d thought. He stepped back several paces because Lebrun was showing a tendency to edge closer. He kept his voice crisp and hard.

‘Stay where you are. Lebrun, how close are the Germans?’

‘They have gone.’ Lebrun looked astonished. ‘They passed through here several days ago soon after the first bombing…’

‘Soldiers in trucks, you mean?’

‘No nothing like that. It was a long column of huge tanks, enormous guns.’

‘But no soldiers in trucks?’ Barnes repeated.

‘No, nothing like that.’ He stared at the machine-pistol, frowning. ‘That is a German gun?’

He’s quick, this one, Barnes warned himself, and probably treacherous. He kept the pistol aimed at Lebrun’s stomach as he pressed home his cross-examination.

‘How long ago was this? You said several days ago – exactly how many days?’

‘Six or seven days since. We did not see them ourselves -we were told. We do not live here.’

He stopped quickly and his face went blank as though he had said the wrong thing. Barnes went on talking quickly, determined to extract the maximum information from this gangster while he was still off-balance.

‘Lebrun, where are the Germans now?’

‘In Abbeville.’

Barnes felt as though he had been rabbit-punched. If this were true the BEF and the French armies in the north would be severed from the main French armies to the south, a catastrophe without precedent during the whole of the First World War. Then he recovered. The so-and-so was lying, of course.

‘Abbeville’s on the coast, Lebrun. Now try again and this time be a bit more careful.’

‘I tell you.’ He became excited, waving his hands above his head. ‘I tell you, they are in Abbeville – we met refugees who were from the town. The Germans tanks are everywhere. They have thousands of tanks and they are all over France.’

‘But not near here?’

The squat man’s eyes became cunning and he stared hard at Barnes before replying.

‘Only the big tank outside Beaucaire – on the roads towards Cambrai.’

‘A German tank, you mean? How far along the road outside Beaucaire?’

‘Seven or eight kilometres – we passed it on our way back here. It is there by accident, I am sure. It has broken down in a field and four soldiers are trying to make the repairs. They are working stripped to the waist like peasants. This was two hours ago.’

‘On which side of the road as you drive towards Cambrai?’

‘To the right, about half a kilometre from the road.’

Barnes nodded and gave them instructions, forming them into a line spread out across the full width of the road with plenty of space between each man. Then he marched them back towards the square, halting at a side turning which led down to the road from the square, at the corner he made them lie down in the dust, flat on their stomachs with their arms stretched out full length, firing one burst from his machine-pistol into the air. The prone bodies jumped and he knew that for a brief second they had believed they were about to die. In the distance he heard the throb of Bert’s engines and he fired a second short burst, bringing the tank round the corner. Only Lebrun plucked up the courage to look over his shoulder as the tank pulled up.

‘Who are these birds?’ inquired Penn from the turret.

‘Looters.’ Barnes spat out the word. ‘While their own chaps are trying to hold off Jerry this lot goes round scavenging. There’s a bus-load of the stuff up the road.’

‘How did you catch on?’

‘Bony-Face was wearing some of it. He’s wearing a filthy old suit but the tie and the shoes don’t go with it – to say nothing of the gold watch.’

He ordered Penn to stay in the turret while Reynolds searched the four men. From Lebrun and one of the thin men the driver extracted two pistols, German 9-mm Luger pistols, and when Barnes asked where they had obtained these Lebrun explained that they had taken them off two dead German soldiers they had found lying beside a crashed motor-cycle and side-car. Barnes made no comment on the fact that only German officers were armed with Luger pistols and he left Penn to guard the four men while he walked back to the bus with Reynolds.

The seats of the bus were littered with a variety of loot which included a glass case containing old gold coins and Barnes was burrowing deeper into the strange cargo when he heard Reynolds give a whoop. The driver had thrown out of the door the hunting rifle, the silk curtains, the little chair and silver tray when he called out. Barnes looked up.

‘Found some champagne?’

‘Yes, for Bert!’

He was holding a heavy rectangular can and had taken off the cap while he examined the contents. Replacing the cap, he carried it off the bus and put it down on the roadside as though it were a fragile glass vase. Then they began searching the bus ruthlessly, finding more cans of the precious diesel fuel which they carried to the roadside. Within five minutes Reynolds had arranged twenty cans in a neat row and still Barnes found it hard to believe their good luck. Bert ran on diesel fuel and possibly the only vehicle in northern France which used this was a bus. Reynolds stood guard over the cans as though he were afraid they might walk away, his voice almost purring.

‘They must have pinched the bus from a depot, so they pinched plenty of spare fuel to go with it.’

‘You can load up Bert now, but get a move on.’ While Reynolds was carrying the cans back to the tank Barnes made a further search of the bus and when his fingers pressed through a coverlet he felt bottles underneath. At least not only Bert would have plenty to drink. Ripping away the coverlet he found a dozen bottles of mineral water: clearly, Mr Lebrun liked to dilute his wine. And underneath the last two mineral waters he found the jackpot – a half-bottle of Five Star Bisquit cognac.

He carried his own treasures back to the tank and the four men were still lying sprawled in the blazing sun while Penn mounted guard over them from the turret. Reynolds was humming to himself as he fussed about the tank, lifting back the engine cover, removing the cap and inserting the large tin funnel which he used to fill up with diesel. As he poured in the precious liquid he was taking as much pleasure over the operation as if he were enjoying a five-course dinner himself. They had almost completed the loading operation when Lebrun couldn’t stand it any longer. Lifting his head cautiously, his face streaming with greasy sweat, he spoke over his shoulder, his tone of voice petulant. ‘Please, sir…’ ‘What is it, Lebrun?’

‘Please leave us two or three of the containers for the bus.’ ‘Too late – we’ve poured it all in the tank.’ Lebrun glared savagely and Barnes was startled by the look of bitter hatred in the squat man’s eyes. He had his mouth open and between the thick lips several misshapen gold teeth showed. Barnes told him to get his head down, took a heavy wrench from the tool kit and went back to wreck the bus’ engine. He smashed the motor systematically, putting it completely out of action. Lebrun wouldn’t be using this bus again to plunder his own people and now there was no risk of the looters driving out of Beaucaire ahead of them to warn that German tank of Bert’s existence. When he returned to the tank Lebrun was settling his face back on the ground as Perm swore at him.

‘He’s a sensitive soul,’ Penn explained. ‘The noise you were making was getting on his nerves.’

‘I wish you’d told me that – I’d have wrapped a cloth round the wrench.’ Barnes’ voice hardened. ‘Lebrun, get on your feet. The others can get up, too.’

Lebrun said something quickly in French and rose slowly to his feet, facing Barnes alongside bis companions, an expression of the utmost venom on his face. He’s an ugly customer, this one, thought Barnes, but he can’t do much without his Lugers. He spoke abruptly.

‘You can all push off now – that way, to the east. If we see any of you again we’ll shoot.’

‘The Germans come from the east…’ began Lebrun.

‘That’s right. I doubt if they’ll like you any better than we do. Get moving.’

They followed the four men down the road in the tank and then halted after they had turned on to the highway which led westward. Amid the sunlit ruins they ate a quick meal and quenched their thirst with mineral water while Barnes pointed out their position on the map and outlined what the Corsican had told him. The news almost spoilt Perm’s appetite.

‘The Germans in Abbeville!’ The corporal looked stunned. ‘You don’t believe that, do you?’

‘With these Panzers roaming all over the place I’m not sure what to believe. I just hope he’s wrong, that’s all.’

‘We’re heading for Cambrai first, then?’

‘It’s in the right direction, if there is such a thing.’

They talked about the problem – a single tank roaming behind the enemy lines, unaware of its position, because they couldn’t be absolutely sure that this was Beaucaire, the Germans unaware of its presence – and then Barnes said it was time to move, but at the last moment he jumped down to the ground again. ‘What’s up?’ inquired Penn, leaning out of the turret.

‘I’m going back to the bus – I forget to look in the tool box at the back and there may be something useful in it.’

He left Penn standing in the turret, hurried back up the road, and turned the corner out of sight of the tank, the machine-pistol under his arm. As he reached the bus he glanced down at the pile of loot which Reynolds had thrown out and wondered why it looked different. Dismissing the thought as imagination, he boarded the bus and made his way to the back. All the windows were closed and it was appallingly hot and airless and there was a smell of wine. His foot kicked an empty bottle which rolled under a seat and he stiffened: the bottle hadn’t been there when he left the bus. Inside the tool box he found a large wrench which he put in his pocket, still trying to work out how the bottle had appeared. He was leaving the bus when his glance fell again on the pile of loot strewn across the ground and a warning signal flashed in his brain. The rifle had gone.

A sense of foreboding gripped him as he ran back towards the corner. Why take an old hunting rifle? Lebrun must have doubled back round the ruins while they were eating, must have found a bottle of wine, drunk it and made off with the weapon. He was midway to the corner when he heard the sound of a single report, one sharp crack, then an awful silence. He reached the corner and at first sight nothing appeared to be wrong: the tank was where he had left it and Penn was still in the turret, but as he ran closer Reynolds scrambled clear of the hatch and stood on the hull close to Penn who was no longer standing erect. When he reached them he saw that the driver was holding Penn up, his right hand sticky with blood. Penn spoke hoarsely, his face ashen.

‘Blighter got me in the shoulder… Lebrun… watch it -he’s behind that building…’

‘Take it easy…’

Reynolds spoke quickly. ‘It’s all right, I can see to him.’

Barnes ran across the rubble towards the stunted house from where he had first seen Lebrun and his gang, ran crouched low, bis eyes everywhere, the machine-pistol held forward in front of his stomach, his mind calculating and murderous. The house came closer and he watched both corners, watched a window which faced his approach, the only three points from which Lebrun could take him by surprise. As he ran he cursed himself for overlooking that rifle, but who would dream of checking an ancient weapon like that? Some idiot must have kept the damned thing loaded in his house and Lebrun had pinched it because of the silver-plated stock. He reached the house, crept round the outer walls, looked inside through a half-wrecked doorway, and saw the entire ground floor at one glance because the internal walls had collapsed, leaving only a stone staircase which led upwards past the still intact ceiling. On an impulse he stepped inside and carefully mounted the staircase which trembled under his footsteps. He emerged on to a flat roof, the floor of the upper storey which had vanished, and it gave him an all-round view over the rubble-strewn desolation behind the house, a region of large bomb craters. Inside one huge hole something flashed in the sunlight.

Lebrun knew instantly that Barnes had spotted him and now he began to scramble to his feet, kicking up dust from the crater floor, shouting hysterically at the top of his voice as he lifted the rifle and waved it harmlessly. The silver on the stock flashed again and again in the sun. Was he saying that the rifle wasn’t loaded, was he begging for mercy? Barnes neither knew nor cared. Without pity, without any real emotion, he lowered the muzzle of the machine-pistol, braced his legs and fired, sweeping the fusillade of bullets over the crater floor where they coughed up spurts of dust. Lebrun was on his feet and suddenly he jerked, then he fell over backwards and lay still. The bombed zone was terribly silent.

Barnes pulled a face. His tank crew was now down to two men.