Tramp in Armour (37 page)

He was going to head all-out for Calais, the last port before
Dunkirk, possibly the twin keys to the whole campaign. If they
could come up behind the Germans, causing the maximum pos
sible damage to their rear, then they might be able to strike a
heavy blow at a decisive moment. Above all else, he prayed
that they would find a really major objective. Bert, going all-
out, had a maximum speed of fifteen miles an hour, whereas
the German
transporter
if driven to its utmost limits, could
multiply that rate by four. But as a preliminary they had to get
rid of one Wehrmacht heavy tank. This operation took less than thirty minutes.

First, they made a cautious reconnaissance to find out where the quagmire began. The wire fence proved to be the boundary
and a short way from the gap through which the German soldier had walked to his death they found a faded notice
board which carried a warning. The next stage was an even
more cautious reversal of the transporter to a position close to
the edge of the swamp. Barnes drove the vehicle while Colburn
guided him with a torch. The third stage was the lowering of
the ramp at the rear of the vehicle, followed by the infinitely
satisfying moment when Barnes climbed into the driving com
partment of the tank, fiddled with the controls, drove it back
wards and forwards a few feet along the deck, and then re
versed it for its final journey. He climbed out of the hatch and jumped clear as the machine was clattering down the
ramp.

Wobbling erratically in the moonlight it proceeded across
the field. It travelled backwards a dozen yards on an even keel,
like a robot moving through the night, then suddenly it lost its
stability, the front tilting downwards as the tracks churned up
a .rain of wet mud. It continued at that angle for a short dis
tance, advancing without pause, hurling back great goutfuls of
ooze which made them jump sideways. A few seconds later the
engine sound changed, coughing and spluttering as the huge tracks sank so deep that only the hull and turret were visible.
The hull went under. The engine sound cut out altogether
while the turret submerged and Barnes saw with amazement
the turret disappear in a matter of seconds, leaving behind
only a disturbed whirlpool of mud and water. They had been
lucky - they had driven Bert into the harder end of the
swamp.
'What happened to that farmer?' he asked Colburn.

'As soon
as
he heard the rattle of your machine-pistol he
cleared off across the fields. I don't think he liked the idea of
being mixed up with dead Germans.'

'And yet he had the guts to fetch those beams.'

'I guess he thought he'd done his, bit - you can't blame him,
he probably had a wife and family.'

'I don't blame him but I'd like to have thanked him with a
bottle of Mandel's wine.'

It took them another ten minutes to put Bert aboard the
transporter and to cover his silhouette with the tarpaulin they always carried. Under Barnes' instructions, Reynolds had re
versed Bert back up the ramp and along the deck until his rear rested behind the cab wall so that in an emergency he could be
driven off in the minimum possible time. Then they had car
ried the dead Germans well away from the roadside into the
field opposite the quagmire, collected all the spare machine-pistol magazines they could lay their hands on, and climbed
aboard.

It was surprising, Barnes thought as he sat in the cab of the transporter which was now thundering north like an express
train, it was surprising what you could do in thirty minutes.
The question now was what they could do behind the German
lines near Calais. He looked at his watch, Penn's watch.
Thirty minutes to midnight. At this rate they would reach the
Calais area soon after midnight, that was assuming they drove
all the way without interception, which of course wouldn't happen. It was the surprise element which they had on their
side, surprise plus audacity. He had a vivid picture of that
Panzer column which had driven through the night with its
lights full on. Well, they had their lights full on and this was a German vehicle they were driving. Finally, there would be an
element of near-chaos close to the battle zone.

'I still say these might come in very useful,' remarked Col-burn. He produced three German helmets piled on top of each
other from under the seat.

'Under what circumstances?' demanded Barnes. 'Put one of
those on and you can get shot as a spy.'

'Just a thought.' He put them away again and produced a
machine-pistol. 'This baby is very good. While you were kill
ing Germans back at the quagmire I found out from Reynolds
how to use it - just in case. Look.'

Extracting the magazine, he hunched the weapon under his
shoulder and gave a demonstration. Then he replaced the
magazine and slipped the pistol under the seat. The energy of the Canadians, thought Barnes. This laddie never stops going.
A distinct asset.

'I still can't understand why you liked handling explosives
as a peacetime occupation,' he told Colburn.

'The satisfaction of doing a good job.' He paused. 'Hell,
let's face it - I'm a bastard who likes a good blow-up.'

'You've come to the right place.' He pointed to the right.

Beyond Barnes' side window the night was lit up with distant flashes, flashes which succeeded each other almost in
stantaneously like an electric storm. They were racing north
through Colburn's 'gap' with the southern flank of the main
battle area on their right, although as yet they couldn't hear
the sound of the guns. For the third time in a minute Reynolds
glanced in his rear-view mirror.

'I thought so, Sergeant. We've got company. There's a
truck coming up behind us and I think it's like die one Penn
put a shell through.'

'How far back?'

'Coming up on our tail. I think he'll be passing us in a
minute. He's coming at a helluva lick.'

'Keep your present speed.'

Barnes tightened his grip on the machine-pistol which lay
across his lap and Colburn produced the German helmets
again with a flourish.

'Sergeant Barnes, how many men do you think there could
be aboard this truck?'

'At least twenty,' said Barnes shortly.

'And we would like to get to Calais rather than fight
Custer's Last Stand here?'

'That is the general idea.'

'Then may I offer these - going very cheap? I've noticed
that in wartime you don't look at a soldier's face - you look at
his uniform, and the most distinctive part of a German soldier's uniform is this elegant helmet.'

They said no more, they put the helmets on, and it struck
Barnes that he had never seen anyone look more like a German
soldier than Reynolds in his helmet which was perhaps just as
well since he would
be closest to the truck. They could hear
the horn blaring behind them now, warning the transporter
they were about to be overtaken, and now a chill silence de
scended on the cab as the tension rose rapidly. Barnes remem
bered the open-backed trucks which Perm had described and
how the sea of faces had stared at
him as they went past. If
this lot suspects anything, Barnes thought grimly, all they have
to do is to play innocent, pass us, and the next thing we'll
know is when a spray of bullets comes through this windscreen.
One burst should do for all three of us. He crouched lower in his seat, peering from under the rim of the helmet which was
too large for him, changing his grip on the pistol so he could
raise and fire in one movement. The only comforting thing was
that Reynolds would keep on driving without his nerve crack
ing as long as he was physically capable of the action. Ah, here they come.

He could see the headlights of the truck now. It seemed to drive part way along the side of the transporter and then hold
its speed. Had the tarpaulin come undone? Could they see that
it wasn't a German tank under the sheet? He peered back
through the little window and the bulk of the tank blocked his
view, but he could see that the tarpaulin was still firmly in
place over the rear. The trouble was it was the side which
counted. The headlights were moving forward now and out of
the corner of his eye he saw the cab of the other vehicle draw
level and then move ahead. Any minute now. The cloth-
covered side of the truck slid past and the truck was ahead of them. A huddle of helmeted German soldiers stared back into the fierce glare of the headlights, their faces white under the
pudding-shaped helmets. Barnes stared back, knowing that
they couldn't see him because of the headlights. They looked dazed, bored, tired. As the truck sped away from them he
wondered how many of the soldiers would be alive when the
war was over. They took off their helmets and handed them to
Colburn.

'Well, that worked,' he said, 'but I can't say I fancied the
experience all that much. Have you had a lot of this sort of thing since you left Etreux?'

'Not more than six times a day,' Barnes replied humorously.

'Oh, well, that's fine. I thought maybe it happened fre
quently.'

You could sense the drop in temperature inside the cab, the relief at still being alive, the sheer enjoyment of still being in
one piece. Colburn found he had an almost uncontrollable im
pulse to chatter and it was with difficulty that he restrained
himself from overdoing it. These boys really had something to
put up with; this long-drawn-out business wasn't his forte.
Give him the air every time. It was short but sharp up there,
over with quickly. Ten minutes later the tension crept back
into the cab when Reynolds informed them that there were
headlights behind again.

'Another truck?' queried Barnes.

'No, I think this is a car. He's in a hurry, too. I thought I
was driving this bus over the speed limits but some of these
drivers need certifying. The car behind came up from nowhere
like a dirt-track rider.'

'Let him pass.'

'Helmets on?' queried Colburn.

'Not this time. Whoever it is won't be able to see clearly
into the cab from a car.'

'He'll see Reynolds if he looks,' Colburn objected.

'I don't like wearing Jerry helmets,' said Reynolds flatly.

Headlights had appeared beyond Reynolds' window and the
car began to move up fast. Reynolds glanced down, looked
ahead quickly, and then glanced down again. The car moved forward and then stayed alongside the transporter's bonnet, the
driver's arm projecting and waving madly as he flagged them
down. Barnes' eyes narrowed and he lifted the pistol, a move
ment which caught Reynolds' eye.

'Don't, Sergeant.'

'What's the matter?'

'It looked like Jacques. I think he wants us to stop.'

'Jacques! It can't be. He passed us this morning on his way
to Abbeville.'