Tramp in Armour

SEVEN Saturday, May 25th

West and then north – that would be the route they would follow. The tank climbed up to the summit of the hill crest at top speed in the mid-morning sunshine. The rim of the turret was hot to the touch., but this heat came from the steady blaze of the sun rather than from the incandescence of fire. Looking back for the last time Barnes saw the tiny figures of the Mandel family standing outside their farm, then they vanished as Bert moved down the other side of the hill. The road ahead to Cambrai was deserted and the only sign of movement came from people working in the fields several kilometres from the roadside.

In spite of his throbbing shoulder, his aching knee, his hand which burned as though a fire smouldered under Marianne’s bandage, Barnes experienced a sense of quiet exhilaration: they were on the move again once more and now he knew exactly where he was heading for. His fateful decision to change direction – to head west and then north for Calais instead of north-west to Arras[5] – was based on a process of thought which had been going on inside Barnes’ head for nearly two days, and he was compelled to rely on only two sources of information – the sketchy news bulletins and the evidence of his own eyes. It was what he had seen which more than anything else had convinced him that this was a revolutionary development in warfare based on the fantastic mobility of the tank.

The Germans had disrupted all previous ideas of a static front line by driving their Panzer divisions non-stop across France, driving forward without any attempt to consolidate what they had conquered, relying almost entirely on the elements of surprise and terror to disorganize their enemy. The conclusion to be drawn seemed clear enough — providing one threw out of the window nearly all one’s previous ideas of tank warfare. If the Panzers could move across such huge distances without waiting for the infantry to occupy them, then it should be possible for a lone British tank to come up behind them providing that it escaped detection. And then there was the question of the dumps. Barnes thought back over the conversation he had had with Jacques as he wrestled with the engine.

‘If you can drive all the way here from Abbeville, Jacques, you must have plenty of petrol.’

‘The Germans have plenty of petrol.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You won’t tell my uncle – he worries about these things?’

‘I asked you because we’re out here on our own.’ Barnes stopped working for a moment. ‘Look Jacques, I’ve got to get an idea of the position as accurately as I can. You’ve been haring all over the countryside and you’re the only one who can tell me.’

‘I took it from a German petrol dump near Abbeville. All I had to do was to creep under a wire fence well away from the guards and take what I wanted. They’ve threatened to shoot anyone found on what they call German property – but that’s to scare people off because they can’t guard the petrol.’

‘Something was said about ammunition dumps, too.’

‘The same with them. I got inside one place with a friend and there were shells and boxes of ammunition all over the place.’

‘I find that hard to believe, Jacques.’

He flushed and then grinned. ‘That is because you do not know what is happening. The German tanks and guns have broken through with their supply columns but the infantry have not yet reached them – so they can’t guard their dumps properly.’

‘I’m beginning to get the idea,’ Barnes encouraged him.

‘It is like the curfew in Cambrai, They say they will shoot anyone found on the streets at night but that is to scare people. I have heard that you can walk all through the town after dark without seeing one German soldier except near the town hall. I think,’ he said shrewdly, ‘the main reason for the curfew is so that people will not know how few Germans there are in Cambrai at the moment.’

‘And you say the road to Abbeville is clear all the way?’

‘Except for Cambrai and the three road-blocks outside Abbeville. I could mark their position on this,’ he offered, pointing to the map spread out over the hull.

‘Do that, would you?’

He went oh checking the engine while Jacques marked the road-blocks and then asked a fresh question.

‘What about the roads south towards the Somme?’

‘I don’t know the position there -I have not been that way, you see.’

‘And which route do you take when you by-pass Cambrai?’

‘This way, to the south. I will mark it for you.’ When he had finished he looked up, his expression blank. ‘If you turned north beyond Cambrai you might get through to Boulogne. I know a way which goes close to St Pol and Fruges, but it is not the main road – it ends up at Lemont where I live, near Gravelines. I have often used the route when driving from Lemont to Abbeville. I will mark that, too, just in case.’

‘Might as well.’ Barnes was peering at the engine.

‘I feel perhaps I should have driven there instead of here,’ went on Jacques as he marked in the route.

‘You’d have run into the Panzers.’

‘Possibly. I wonder? I think they went up the coast road here and my route is much farther inland. From what I have heard I believe there is a gap between the Panzers along the coast and the Allied lines near the frontier.’

‘Really?’ Barnes kept his face blank, wondering whether he was fooling the sharp-witted youth. It hadn’t escaped him that Jacques had carefully refrained from asking him which route they would be taking.

‘I’m going back to Abbeville later this morning. I want to tell my sister that Uncle is all right. Then I may drive on to Lemont. Plenty of petrol!’

The trouble with this lad, Barnes was thinking, is that he’s so excited by the war that he can’t keep still, so he pinches Jerry petrol and then goes flying about all over the countryside to see what’s going on. If he’s not careful he’s going to run into something.

But it was from this conversation that Barnes had gleaned the final scraps of information which led to his ultimate decision, and as the tank rumbled down the hill away from the Mandels he was pretty confident that the French lad had no idea which route he was taking – something he had been particularly careful about in case the lad were picked up by the Germans and made to talk. He scanned the sky and it was empty, further proof that they were still moving through a vast gap in the Allied lines, since had there been any Allied forces in the area the Luftwaffe would have been bombing them. An hour later they had turned off the main road to Cambrai and had almost by-passed the southern approaches to the town. He called a temporary halt to go down and see Penn.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked him.

‘Not too bad, although I do feel a bit woozy. I’m getting double vision every now and again.’

Penn was propped up with a wedge of blankets and he was trying to hold himself upright, but earlier when he had looked down into the fighting compartment Barnes had seen him sagging limply, his head flopped forward as though he couldn’t hold it up any more. What the devil are we going to do with him, Barnes thought, but he spoke cheerfully.

‘Can you stand a bit more of this? I know the movement of the tank must be giving you hell.’

‘It’s not so much that as the lack of fresh air down here. It’s like sitting inside a furnace.’

The description was apt enough. Even standing on the turntable for only a few minutes was enough to bring Barnes out in a prickly sweat and he was surprised that Perm was still conscious.

‘I’ll be all right,’ said Penn.

‘Do you want to try and stick your head out of the turret for a while?’

‘I doubt if I could get up there.’

Barnes kept his face blank but a chill of fear gripped him. He had to keep moving, had to keep the tank heading west and then north, but he had to find a doctor for Penn, too. It seemed as though fate had deliberately kept Penn in a state where he was wounded but not desperately ill until they had left the Mandel farm, and now Penn was becoming desperately ill, Barnes had little doubt of that. His skin was a strangely pallid colour and his eyes appeared to have sunk.

‘The next place we come to we’ll see if we can find a doctor,’ he said.

‘Not necessary. I’m not doing anything except sitting and I’ll probably feel better by evening. It’s just this heat.’ He tried to speak lightly. ‘Calais next stop?’

‘We’ve a long way to go before we get there, Penn.’ ‘How far is it?’ ‘About a hundred miles.’ ‘Seven hours’ drive if Bert goes flat out.’ ‘You’re assuming there’ll be nothing in the way, Penn. We can count on there being plenty in the way.’

It seemed an odd way for Barnes to be talking to a seriously wounded man but already he was foreseeing the moment when they would have to leave Penn behind if they could find a sanctuary for him. The realization of what they were driving into might make that moment when they left him a little less hard to bear. He hoped so. He also hoped that they found that sanctuary soon. Considering his physical state, Penn’s mind was remarkably alert.

‘A hundred miles, you said. Have we got the diesel for that?’

‘Yes, with what we took off Lebrun, that is, providing we keep to the road all the way, which we probably won’t. You know what happens when we move across country – fuel consumption is doubled.’ ‘You know what,’ Penn began brightly, ‘I think we’re going to make it. I’ve had a bit of time to think down here and it strikes me there may not be all that much in our way if we keep a sharp lookout.’ He paused and Barnes realized that Penn was wondering whether anyone was observing.

‘It’s all right, Penn. I told Reynolds to get out and stand on the hull while I was down here. Now, what were you thinking?’

‘Well, Jerry is pushing on fast with his tanks and his popguns but the old foot-sloggers haven’t put in much of an appearance down here yet. I reckon that with a lot of luck we could sneak up behind those Panzers before we run into much. Then it’s up to us.’

‘We might do just that, Penn.’

‘And by that time I’ll have pulled myself together. You’ll see me hugging the old two-pounder again before we reach Calais. You can bet on it.’

‘I never bet on certainties, Penn.’

With a heavy heart Barnes climbed back into the turret, told Reynolds in a loud voice that Penn was coming along nicely, and then gave the order to advance. Half an hour later he looked back along the road, frowned, and grabbed his binoculars. The twin circles of glass brought forward a four-seater Renault with a single occupant, the driver. Jacques was racing towards them on his way to Abbeville.

The twin circles of glass focused and brought forward a toy line of white cliffs glistening in the sunlight. The white cliffs of Dover. General Storch lowered his binoculars and frowned.

‘There we are, Meyer, the citadel of the enemy – the main enemy. Let us hope the 14th Panzer Division will be the first to be put ashore on the British beaches.’

‘We have to beat them over here first,’ Meyer pointed out.

‘That will be dealt with in the next forty-eight hours. Here we stand on the coast west of Calais with our forward troops on the Gravelines waterline and Calais is under siege. Now we only have to take Dunkirk and the whole British Army is surrounded.’

Meyer screwed his monocle into his eye and found that he was looking through a film of perspiration. In the hour of victory he felt exhausted, overwhelmed by the dazzling series of triumphs Storch had produced since that day so long ago when they crossed the Meuse at Sedan. So long ago? It was the afternoon of Saturday, May 25th, and they had made their way over the pontoons at Sedan on May 14th. Meyer felt stunned. Perhaps, after all, this was a war for the younger men, for the Storches. The general stood gazing out to sea, talking rapidly.

‘I want an immediate investigation made of this French Fascist’s story – that informant from Lemont. He says there is a second road direct to Dunkirk – a road the enemy may’ not know about now that the sluice gates have been opened.’

‘The French were very quick about that – the floods will make it very difficult for the Panzers to move on Dunkirk…’

Storch broke in impatiently. ‘This is why this second road may be decisive. I want you to interrogate this man personally.’

‘I can’t find such a road on any map…’

‘But that is the whole point, Meyer. Our Fascist friend has explained that for some reason it is not included on most French maps. So if the British are holding the sector at the other end they may not know it exists now it is under water. Even if there are French units in that sector they will probably come from another part of France. That road could be the key to final victory – the road along which the Panzers will advance to Dunkirk.’

‘I don’t think we should count on it.’

They paused as they heard the humming sound of a host of engines above them. Craning their necks they stared into the sky where an armada of small grey dots was approaching from the east, the humming growing steadily louder as the planes came forward like a swarm of angry bees. Storch nodded his head in satisfaction.

‘General Goering is on time again and I see he has the sky to himself. When Mr Churchill opened the cupboard this morning he must have found his shelves bare.’

‘We mustn’t count on air immunity any longer,’ said Meyer sharply. ‘After all, we can actually see England from here.’

Storch tightened his lips at this sign of caution. ‘I want a very detailed report about your conversation with, this Fascist. He says this road will be covered by only a few inches of water – sufficient to conceal its existence but not enough to prevent the passage of the Panzers. Since he is a local he may well know what he is talking about.’

‘I’d better go now.’

But Meyer did not go immediately because his sharp ears had heard a fresh sound in the sky, an engine sound different from that of Goering’s huge aerial fleet. Whipping up his glasses he focused them towards the west while beside him Storch also stood with his binoculars aimed upwards. High above the Channel, at an altitude much greater than the Luftwaffe bombers, several squadrons of RAF fighters flew steadily on course, heading for an invisible point which would take them over the heart of the oncoming bombers, although from the ground it seemed that the two air fleets were advancing on a collision course. Less than a minute later the RAF formations dived to the attack, roaring down like avenging hornets on the massed planes below, weaving in and out of the pattern of bombers which was now becoming disorganized as the pilots forgot their objectives and desperately began to take evading action. In less than two minutes the huge German air armada was flying in all directions, its attack formation completely shattered. One bomber spiralled to the ground and crashed into the fields a mile away, to be followed by a second, but this one was heading for the coast close to where Storch and Meyer stood. As one man they dropped flat behind the hull of a nearby tank only seconds before the bomber hit the earth three hundred yards away, its bomb load exploding a few seconds after the moment of impact. The vibrations of the shock wave rattled the tank behind which they sheltered and a shower of soil rained down on Storch’s neck and shoulders. Meyer spoke quietly.

‘Mr Churchill must have found something at the bottom of his cupboard.’

‘Driver, halt! There’s a parachute coming down,’ Barnes warned.

The air battle had raged over their heads, out of sight, for several minutes – out of sight even though the sky was cloudless because the planes were high and against the glare of the early afternoon sun. From the noise it sounded as though several machines were wheeling and diving as they fought each other to death in the sunlight. The engine sounds had come closer and faintly he had heard the stutter of machine guns but they went on manoeuvring in front of the sun so that he had found it impossible to locate them until he had heard the ominous sound of a plane plunging into a tremendous power dive. Then he had located a small dark shape spinning earthwards a long way to the west, much too far off to identify its nationality quite apart from the fantastic speed at which it approached the ground. It vanished and he heard a distant cough. Petrol tank gone. A thread of black smoke crept up from the horizon. Overhead the sky was full of warm silence. He gave the order to advance, reversing that order almost at once as he saw the tiny inverted cone of the single parachute floating down. He waited.

While he waited he thought about Penn. Since noon they had passed through three abandoned villages, and when he had halted the tank and walked through their deserted streets he had in each place found a house with the tantalizing word Medecin on a door-plate, but there had been no one behind the doors. Inside the third village they had stopped briefly for a quick meal from the Mandels’ food parcel but Penn hadn’t shared the meal because he appeared to have fallen into a state of unconsciousness. Alarmed, Barnes had checked his pulse but the beat was steady. When he felt his forehead it was hot and damp, and now everything in Barnes’ mind was dominated by his new priority – finding a doctor. They were within four miles of the next village before the air battle going on overhead had attracted his attention as he halted the tank to attend to a call of nature. Reynolds twisted his head above the hatch to follow the course of the cone as it grew larger and larger drifting straight for them across the deserted fields. He called up from the hatch.

‘Ours or theirs?’

‘No idea.’

It was a good question, a vital question, in fact. The last thing they could cope with at the present was a Luftwaffe pilot as a prisoner. But if he had seen them and they let him go free it might be less than an hour before German headquarters in Cambrai knew of the presence of a British tank prowling behind their lines. As he watched the parachutist drift lower Barnes swore to himself. He had already shot one German for mercy reasons beside the wrecked infantry truck, but the idea of shooting one down in cold blood for their own protection was rather a different business. Maybe he’ll open fire on me, Barnes told himself. If he does I’ll let him have half the magazine. There was, of course, just the chance that the pilot wouldn’t see them. The parachute was drifting lower and lower – and closer – the tiny figure underneath pulling at cords to guide himself, bobbing about so erratically that Barnes found it impossible to focus the glasses on him. Reynolds called up from the hatch.

‘What if it is a Jerry?’

‘Then we’ll have a problem on our hands.’

‘I’d shoot the bastard. He’s probably just back from machine-gunning one of those refugee columns.’

Barnes was surprised. It was the first time that Reynolds had ever expressed an opinion without being asked for one. His burnt arms must be playing him up badly. Reaching down, he picked up the machine-pistol and tucked it under his arm. There was no hope now that the parachutist might not see them – as he drifted close to the earth he was floating nearer and nearer to the tank. From that height and distance he couldn’t possibly miss seeing them. Climbing down from the turret he stood on the hull so that he could see the exact landing point. The parachutist was now tugging frantically at the cords so that the cone which had been almost overhead was floating away from them along the country road. He jumped down off the hull.

‘I can follow him in the tank,’ offered Reynolds.

‘No, I’ll investigate this blighter myself – get another machine-pistol out of the turret and wait here.’

‘Watch yourself, Sergeant. Don’t forget Seft.’

That was the trouble at the moment, Barnes thought. We’re in a general state of jitters. Apart from the Mandel farm, which had been a brief oasis of peace in a nightmare world, ever since they had arrived at Fontaine they had met either the enemy in the form of Panzers or treachery in the form of Lebrun; in the case of Seft the enemy and treachery had combined into one menace. So what was he going to encounter now? Let him give me just one reason, just one small reason, and I’ll press the trigger.

He was running along the dusty road when the pilot landed in the field close to the verge, the parachute billowing as it dragged its owner across the grass. The cloth cone collapsed slowly. Barnes ran faster. He wanted to get there before the pilot disentangled himself from the cords, but as he came closer the man released himself from the parachute and climbed to his knees, facing Barnes who ran up with the machine-pistol thrust forward. Were pilots armed? He didn’t think so but he wasn’t taking any chances. The kneeling figure saw the gun and stayed on his knees, throwing bis arms wide to show that he was unarmed. The next second will tell, Barnes thought grimly, and then the man spoke.

‘And what is a Limey doing in this part of France, I’d like to know? Don’t shoot the pilot – he’s done his best!’

‘You’re an RAF pilot?’

Barnes asked the question sharply, his pistol still armed at the pilot’s chest as his eyes roamed over every inch of the man’s flying suit. From underneath goggles pushed up over the leather helmet a rugged face stared upwards at Barnes, the face of a man who might be any age between twenty-five and thirty-five. His skin was tanned brown, the texture almost as leathery as the suit he wore; his huge nose, strongly boned, overhung a broad, firm-lipped mouth, and his jaw-line suggested great strength of character. This, thought Barnes, is a tough egg, a very tough egg. But the overall impression of toughness was tempered by the humorous expression in his blue eyes, a humour which came to the surface with his reply.

‘If I’m not RAP the Luftwaffe is employing some pretty dubious characters.’

His accent was heavily American and this alone was disconcerting, plus the fact that the pilot himself appeared more amused than disconcerted, an unusual reaction when a man found himself at the wrong end of a gun. But Barnes couldn’t forget that Penn had thought Seft a genuine Belgian, and it was just possible that the Luftwaffe employed a few renegade Americans.

‘Get on your feet,’ Barnes said tightly.

‘Coming down I think I broke both me legs, Sergeant.’

God, another lame duck to take aboard Bert. As if it wasn’t enough having to cope with Penn he was now going to have another patient on his hands. The tank was rapidly turning into a casualty clearing station: the only trouble was that there was nowhere to clear them to. He went back several paces as the pilot clambered carefully to his feet. The stranger grinned.

‘Correction, Sergeant. I just feel as though I’ve broken both me legs. Ever landed in one of those things? The ground looks to be coming up so peacefully and then at the last minute it flies up and hits you like a steam-hammer.’

‘I didn’t know the RAF were recruiting Americans,’ Barnes said grimly.

‘Canadians, please!’ He lifted one gloved hand in mock horror. ‘Although your error of geography is understandable, Sergeant. My mother is Canadian and my father was American, but I was born in Canada. Ever heard of Wainwright, Alberta? No, I didn’t think you would have. It’s about the size of a pinhead but the CNR expresses do stop there to unload drums of ice-cream for the locals.’ He gestured behind Barnes. ‘Is that your tin can back there?’

‘The tin can is a Matilda tank. Have you any way of proving your identity?’

‘Sure. If I unbutton my jacket and slip my hand inside real slow you’ll promise not to pull the trigger?’

Barnes didn’t reply and he watched the pilot’s hand carefully as it ferreted inside the jacket, but when the fingers came out again they only held an RAF identity card. The pilot held it between his fingers for a moment.

‘Now if I try and hand it to you there’s a danger you’ll think I’m going to jump you. On the other hand, if I drop it on the ground for you to pick it up. I could just possibly land a boot in your eye. So which is it to be?’

‘Drop it on the ground – then take six paces back.’

The pilot was still pacing backwards when Barnes stooped quickly to grab the identity card. Using only his left hand he fingered open the card, wondering whether he was carrying on with his check through caution or sheer cussedness at Colburn’s attitude. Because that was the name in the card. Flying Officer James Q. Colburn.

‘The Q is for Quinn,’ Colburn explained helpfully, ‘which comes from my mother’s side of the family. The Quinns are an old British Columbia family – old, that is, by Canadian standards – although…’

‘All right, Colburn.’ Barnes skimmed the card through the air and the pilot caught it with his left hand. ‘What happened up there near the sun?’

‘You’re satisfied with my identity, then, Sergeant?’

‘I think so.’

‘Well how about letting me see your pay-book – or am I supposed to take you at face value alone?’

Barnes looked at the six-foot pilot. He had a seriously ill loader-operator on his hands, he was in a great hurry to push on to the next village in search of medical help, and he had expected to find a Luftwaffe pilot struggling to free himself from the cords. He was certainly in no mood for wisecracks with freelance Canadians.

‘I’m Sergeant Barnes and if you think I’m going to show you my pay-book you’re out of your tiny mind. What do you think that thing standing behind me is – a Jerry tank? And even you must have seen a British Army uniform.’

‘All right! All right!’ Colburn waved a placatory hand. ‘And don’t think I don’t appreciate you’ve probably had a hell of a fortnight, whereas I’m just over here for the afternoon. At least I thought I was,’ he added. ‘But may I point out that I’m wearing RAF flying kit and that what you saw come down in flames wasn’t a vacuum cleaner. It was, at the time of take-off from Mansion, a perfectly good Hurricane.’

‘It came down so quickly I hardly saw it till the crash. A Messerschmitt got you, I suppose?’

‘Three of them – although that’s no excuse. They chased me down here from the coast, which was a ‘bad reaction on my part since I hadn’t the petrol to make home base even if I -could have clobbered the lot. Let’s face it – they out-manoeuvred me. And, Sergeant, do I have to sing Auld Lang Syne before you’ll put away the carbine?’

Barnes lowered the machine-pistol and nodded. ‘Sorry, but we had a little trouble with a German fifth columnist who said he was Belgian so I’m taking nothing for granted. You could have been one yourself, Colburn.’

‘Out of the sky?’ queried the Canadian ironically, then his expression changed. ‘I’m sorry – you’re right to check everything. Those characters really exist, then? We’ve heard plenty of rumours – so many you’d think France was swarming with them.’

‘The only thing this part of France swarms with is Panzers.’ Barnes stared hard at Colburn before he went on. Was Colburn really as tough as he looked? ‘You’ve come down in the middle of a gigantic no-man’s-land which could be at least twenty miles wide, but the only troops we’ve seen are parts of armoured divisions. We’re completely on our own – just one Matilda tank.’

Barnes had relaxed a little now and he was prepared to wait for a few more precious minutes while he made up his mind. He was studying Colburn quite dispassionately, without the least trace of sentiment, weighing him up ruthlessly. And Barnes had some experience of weighing up men. In this instance he was applying only one criterion – would Colburn be an asset or a liability? If he was going to be the latter then he wasn’t coming with them. Colburn stared at him steadily.

‘You mean the rest of your outfit got wiped out?’

‘I mean we got separated from them at the very beginning and it’s been that way ever since. If you come with us you’d better understand we have one two-pounder gun, one light machine gun, several machine-pistols and three revolvers. That’s the extent of our armament and so far we’ve escaped detection by three separate Panzer columns by the skin of our teeth.’

‘Sounds a little one-sided. I’d have thought you could do with a little reinforcement.’

‘We could, but tanks don’t fly and you’re a pilot.’

‘You may have a point there. What’s the alternative?’

‘The alternative, Colburn, is to make your own way home.’ He paused. ‘Unless you’d sooner take the easier way out and walk down that road into Cambrai where the Germans are. Then you could spend the rest of your war in a nice quiet POW camp.’

He waited for the Canadian’s reaction, but still nothing had changed in the steady expression. Even the voice was mild when he retaliated.

‘I suppose if I were to hit you in the mouth for that, Sergeant, your pal in the tank would gun me down?’

‘I’m sure he would. Don’t let me get under your skin, Colburn. It’s just that I have to be sure.’

‘Sure of what? I thought you’d have realized by now that I was taking off from Manston half an hour ago.’

‘I have to be sure you won’t get in the way. You’re a Canadian, you say, yet you’re in the RAF.’

‘I volunteered. It was very hot weather at the time and the heat can make you do silly things…’

‘What were you in civvy street, Colburn?’

‘I took my medical degree and then…’

‘You’re a doctor?’ Barnes didn’t attempt to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

‘No, I’m not. I never practised. I found I didn’t like it so I became a chemist.’

‘A chemist?’ Barnes found it difficult to visualize Colburn behind a counter handing out aspirin.

‘An industrial chemist. I developed an interest in high-explosives and had my own outfit after a few years. We supplied stuff for quarry-blasting operations all over Canada. So now you’ll know how crazy I was to volunteer.’

‘You had your own business and you gave it up?’ Barnes stared even more closely at Colburn’s sun-tanned features, wondering what made a man throw up everything to travel three thousand miles to fight someone else’s war. His decision was crystallizing rapidly now.

‘No, it wasn’t as bad as that. I handed over to my brother and he’s running things till I get back.’ Colburn smiled faintly. ‘Ed doesn’t see any reason why the British shouldn’t be left to fight their own wars. He could be right at that. Sergeant, what made you jump half a mile when I said I’d taken my medical degree?’

‘My corporal’s seriously wounded and I’ve been praying to run into a doctor for hours. Would you take a look at him for me?’

‘Be glad to – but remember, I’m the most qualified non-practising doctor in the western hemisphere. Where is he?’

Barnes stayed behind to gather up the collapsed parachute while Colburn walked back to where Reynolds waited on the hull of the tank. It took him several minutes to bundle up the cloth and cords into a package which resembled an overblown eiderdown and then he bid it inside a drainage ditch. There was no point in alerting any German patrol which might arrive later to the fact that there was a British airman in the district. When he returned to the tank Reynolds was out of sight inside the hull but Colburn’s head emerged from the turret. He looked down at Barnes, his voice quiet.

‘The guy down there is a close friend of yours?’

‘He’s my corporal,’ replied Barnes flatly.

‘Sorry, that was badly put. The news isn’t good, I’m afraid.’

‘He may not make it?’

‘He didn’t make it – he’s dead.’

It took them well over an hour to dig the grave out of the sunbaked French soil. They worked with the same shovels which had been used to dig them out of the tunnel at Etreux, and they took it in turns when Colburn insisted on helping. During his rest period Barnes watched Colburn closely: on the basis of sheer physical strength there was very little to choose between the Canadian and Reynolds, but the main thing he liked about Colburn was his quick acceptance of an entirely new situation. By now the poor devil might well have expected to be landing at Mansion prior to a trip to the nearest local: instead of which he was marooned in the middle of the battle zone helping to bury the body of a man he had never known alive. As he watched them dig out the final shovelfuls his mind was stunned. Penn had spent three years with him and in that time they had established a working relationship which functioned so smoothly they might have known each other all their lives. Penn, who had never really believed in anything, who found his sergeant’s intense preoccupation with his profession rather amusing, Penn was a man who could always be relied upon. And, by God, they’d relied on him during that endless night when he’d stood sentry-go on the bridge while the Panzers rolled past. Penn had found his sanctuary now, although not the sanctuary Barnes had planned for him.

What had seemed to be the simplest part of their mournful task proved to be the hardest – the lowering of the body. The grave was ready and Colburn stood aside, leaving it to Barnes and Reynolds to lift the body which they had swathed in a blanket and then further protected by folding a groundsheet round it. To enable them to lower their burden slowly they had looped two ropes round the groundsheet – one over the chest and the other over the legs. All went well until the body was halfway down inside the grave, then it stuck, wedged in at the shoulders at a point where the hole narrowed. They raised it and then lowered it a second time, but again it stuck. Barnes looked at Colburn.

‘Would you take over this rope for me?’

He waited until the Canadian was in position and then he knelt down, placing the flat of his hand on the groundsheet. As he pressed he could feel the thickness of the bandage over Penn’s left arm. Colburn had said that it was probably the shock of severe burning on top of his shoulder wound which had finally dictated that he couldn’t survive. The heavily-wrapped body still wouldn’t go down. He pressed harder, feeling that Penn didn’t want to be buried here and was resisting him. What was it he had said? ‘You’ll see me hugging the old two-pounder again before we reach Calais.’ Well, they were a long way from Calais and now Penn would never know whether they made it or not. He pressed harder still, knowing that they hadn’t time to embark on fresh digging because out here they were horribly exposed to view. The body gave up the struggle suddenly, sinking down so unexpectedly that Barnes almost over-balanced. When he stood up his face and hands were running with sweat and all he wanted to do was to get away from this place.

‘Shouldn’t we say something over him?’ mumbled Reynolds.

‘No,’ said Barnes abruptly, ‘nothing. Didn’t you know – he was an agnostic.’

When they had filled in the grave they erected a crude marker, and they used a shovel because it was the only instrument they could find for their purpose. The shovel was dug deep into the ground and on the handle Barnes had inscribed simple wording which he cut into the wood with his knife. ‘18972451 Corporal M. Penn. Killed in Action. May 25th, 1940.’

Before they moved off he asked Colburn to check his shoulder wound. While he had been leaning over into the grave, at the moment when the body had suddenly slipped down into its resting place, he had jerked his shoulder, feeling something give: he had ripped open the wound again. He sat on the warm hull while the Canadian removed the bandage and Colburn’s voice spoke volumes of disapproval.

‘I can see this dressing hasn’t been changed recently.’

‘You mean it’s turned septic?’ Barnes inquired quietly.

‘No, you were lucky there. I’m talking about the state of the outside of the dressing. You’ve reopened it again, all right, but it looks clean and that’s the main thing. Now, keep still. This may hurt.’

Cleaning the freshly-opened wound thoroughly, he applied a new dressing and then helped Barnes on with his shirt and jacket. The shoulder was starting to throb steadily, a nagging ache which absorbed far too much energy. When he was dressed he took out a pencil from the pocket containing Penn’s pay-book and diary, spread out his map over the hull and roughly marked the spot where the corporal was buried. One day Penn’s parents might wish to make a pilgrimage to this spot, but by then anything could have happened to the shovel. Really, he told himself, it’s a waste of time. All he could hope for was that the whole ruddy war wasn’t a waste of time. He began discussing the battlefield situation with Colburn but soon found out that the Canadian could tell him little more than he already knew.

‘As far as I can make out,’ Barnes went on, ‘The BEF is roughly north of this line with the Belgian Army on its left. We’re standing in the middle of a huge no-man’s-land…’

‘The gap,’ said Colburn.

‘You mean they’re actually calling it that?’

‘Yes, it’s referred to as that on our briefing maps. As you say, you’re slap in the middle of it but there’s a lot of argument as to how wide it is. My squadron came over to mix it with Hun fighters but as a sideline we were told to shoot up any Panzers we found. They think reinforcements may come through here soon.’

‘They were right – they came through early this morning.’

‘Late again.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Going back to those Panzers, I raised a query about the risk of shooting up our own guys and you’re not going to like the answer they gave. They said that if we found a whole lot of heavy tanks strung out along a road they were bound to be German – the British only have a handful and the French have cleverly scattered theirs in penny packets over the whole front.’

‘You don’t seem to know a great deal more than I do, Colburn.’

‘Sergeant, you’re over here in the thick of it, and it’s my opinion that you’re far to close to be able to take in the general picture.’

‘That, Colburn, said Barnes irritably, ‘is what I’m trying to extract from you. You get detailed briefings before you take to the air, you fly over the battlefield – if anyone has a general picture it should be you.’

‘Oh, I’ve got it, all right, but from your questions I get the idea you’re looking for some sort of clear pattern I should draw you, some nice neat little map which will show the Germans here, your lot there, and the French some other place. Well, I can’t do that, and again it’s only my opinion, but I’m pretty sure that when this war is only a memory and the historians get busy with their tidy little analyses they still won’t be able to say exactly which unit was where and on what day.-This, for what it’s worth, is the biggest muddle of a battle that ever was.’

‘What are you trying to say?’

‘That there isn’t any information worth a damn – these boys, the generals, are just making it up as they go along. Just like Wellington in the Peninsular War when he said it was like knotting a rope – you tie one knot, then you tie another and hope for the best. But don’t try to kid me that any of them are working to a tidy little plan in a war room any more.’

‘Not even the Germans?’ Barnes asked quietly.

‘Not even those bastards.— not any more. Ask me how I know and I’ll tell you it’s the well-known Colburn intuition -that and the fact that I’m a minor student of the history of warfare. But there’s one thing, Barnes, I’d bet money on – I’d bet that at this moment the German generals are so intoxicated with their success that they don’t know what to do with it. Generals are always divided into pushers and pullers – one lot will be saying press on, push ‘em into the sea, and the other lot will be yelling blue murder that they’ve over-reached themselves and had better dig in quick before they get their heads chopped off.’

‘It doesn’t help me much,’ remarked Barnes.,

‘Well, maybe this will help you. When I flew in today I came down south-east over Calais and I’m pretty sure there’s another gap between the coast road and the main battle area to the east. That could just be the way for us to go.’

‘It is the way we’re going.’

‘So I get a free ride to Calais, but on one condition – that you don’t ever ask me again for the general picture. There isn’t one. This is such a bloody mixed-up mess they’ll never be able to describe it – not in a hundred years’ time. Not unless they call on the aid of Shakespeare who did have a word for a complete one hundred per cent shambles. The general picture, Sergeant Barnes, is hugger-mugger.’

‘Which simply means we could run into Jerry at any time now.’