Tramp in Armour (39 page)

'Reynolds, if you can, drive over that rifle and the cycle - as
long as you can get us back off the verge to the road. Leave it
to you...'

Reynolds made no reply, his broad shoulders hunched for
ward over the wheel, his head quite still as he stared through
the windscreen. They hadn't opened fire yet. The fact that it
was a German vehicle was confusing them. Barnes braced him
self for the impact, grabbing the edge of the window and
spreading his left arm across Colburn's chest to hold him back.
Cleverly, Reynolds left his manoeuvre until the last possible
moment, driving straight down the centre of the road, heading
for the middle of the barrier, increasing speed. Twenty yards.
Fifteen. Ten. He turned the wheel. The anti-tank rifle, the soldier, the man on the cycle, rushed towards them and then the
huge transporter loaded with twenty-six tons of tank smashed
past the impediments. The wheels ground over something, the
cycle and side-car were hurled sideways, the soldiers catapulted
through the air, and then they were through the barrier as
Reynolds swung the transporter back on to the centre of the road. Not a shot had been fired. In his concentration on the anti-tank rifle Barnes had never even seen the pole go: when he leaned out to look back all the lights had disappeared and
the beams from the Renault were fading into the distance. He gave one simple order. 'Accelerate.'

ELEVEN

Sunday., May 26th

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

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

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

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

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

'You've read it, so tell me.'

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

'What are the armchair lot up to now?'

'The message is not complete - it was garbled in transmis
sion. We're still having trouble with the wireless but I'm sure
the meaning is clear.'

'We haven't much time,' the general reminded him, examin
ing the map as he spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'But the message from GHQ...' Meyer began.

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

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

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

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

'What is really worrying you, Meyer?'

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

'You have sufficient for the operation?'

'Too much really...'

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

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

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

'Precisely! The British are in front of us, Meyer, not be
hind us. We advance at dawn as planned.'

The clock on Meyer's desk registered 12.10
am.

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

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

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

'I'm sure he would,' replied Barnes grimly.

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

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

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

'Don't let him.'

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

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