by Colin Forbes
'Keep it up, Penn. You're a bloody marvel.'
Hearing Barnes' voice made him feel better: it counteracted the dreadful feeling of being mercilessly exposed to the enemy. And it can't be all that much fun down there, he thought. It's probably even worse not being able to see what's going on. He began counting again. Half an hour later, as though his nerves had not already been shredded, battered to a jelly, and then shredded again,' fate decided to turn the screw tighter, to take him to breaking-point and then beyond to a region of terrified desperation he could never have dreamt existed, and the trial came without warning.
The truck approached the bridge like its predecessors, the headlights catching him briefly in the face. It rode up over the slope and passed him, first the cab with the officer and then the open back with its huddle of staring faces. As it started to turn the corner it back-fired explosively again and again. The vehicle slowed down, its engine coughing and spluttering unpleasantly although it still took the truck forward. Penn could hear the driver fighting to keep the engine going and for a few seconds it throbbed perfectly. Then the awful coughing started again and the truck turned off the road, its headlights beamed directly on the copse. Driving forward a few yards farther into the field it stopped.
In a daze of horror Penn watched men jumped down from the back and begin to walk about the field. An officer and a soldier, undoubtedly the driver, had the bonnet up and they were peering inside at the engine. The sentry Barnes killed, Penn thought grimly, must have some chums in this division and they could be outside that truck. How long would it be before a soldier came over to him? Even in the face of this new nightmare Penn realized what was happening as the next tank came over the bridge. Every vehicle must have the same instructions - in the event of a possible breakdown they had to get off the road at all cost. Whatever happened they mustn't impede the movement of the Panzers. And this lot could quite easily still be here by daylight.
'Penn!' Barnes hissed the name from behind the parapet. 'I know what's happened. Just keep still. They may get that truck moving in a minute...'
He broke off as another tank crossed the bridge, pressing himself flat against the wall so that it was impossible for the commander in the turret to spot him.
'Penn, I'm right behind you with one of their own machine-pistols if the balloon goes up. Don't move - just...'
The rest of his words were lost as another tank clattered by, but knowing that Barnes was waiting behind the wall gave Perm's morale a desperately needed boost. He gripped the machine-pistol tighter. If this was it, well this was it and there was nothing he could do except to keep up the masquerade to the bitter end. Several of the men from the truck were moving closer to the road and the officer and the driver were still bent double over the engine. If they didn't get it started pretty soon some of the waiting troops were going to cross the road to come and have a chat with him. He saw one soldier start to cross, then headlights flared and a truck swept over the bridge too quickly, pulling up at the corner with a squeal of brakes; gunning the engine as it navigated the corner. The soldier had stepped back on to the grass and stood there hesitantly. Something had to give soon.
Barnes had left the wall behind Penn and now he was scrambling up the southern bank, the bank nearest to the oncoming column. His hands were torn to pieces, covered in congealed blood from earlier struggles with the brambles, the congealed blood in its turn covered with a film of fresh blood so that both palms were sticky with gore and damp with sweat. He reached the top and fell flat as another vehicle arrived, waiting until it had passed before he parted the branches of a shrub, sucking in breath quickly at what he saw. They were almost too late. He scrambled down the bank again, picked up his machine-pistol from the path, plunged into the river, and climbed the other side. He waited until the next tank had crossed and then spoke rapidly.
'Penn, only four more vehicles to come - and the last two are probably motor-cycles.'
'I think that truck in the field is leaving...'
'I know, I heard them starting the engine. Now listen. You let two more vehicles pass and then you get down here like a bat out of hell when I tell you.'
'But the truck in the field...'
'Shut up!'
It was going to be a damned close thing, Barnes knew that. He was peering round the end of the bridge where he could watch the truck. Soldiers were climbing into the back and the officer and the driver were inside the front cab. The last patrol at the rear of the column would be stopping on the bridge to collect Penn and they would have to deal with that patrol, but everything depended on the truckload of soldiers in the field driving away in time so that they had the bridge to themselves, and Barnes realized that the timing was going to be split-second. All the troops were aboard now, the tail-board had been pulled up. The truck started to turn in a half-circle. Another vehicle went over the bridge, an armoured car. One more to come. The truck was driving forward towards the road, bumping across the uneven field at a painfully slow pace. Would it slip on to the road before the next vehicle drove past, the last one before the patrols arrived? He gripped his machine-pistol firmly, his mind on edge for the lightning decision he would have to take within the next sixty seconds. The truck reached the edge of the road and paused to make sure that the way was clear. Barnes watched it grimly - that truck was the real enemy, the enemy which could mean the difference between life and death for his unit. It seemed reluctant to depart, almost as though the driver sensed that there was some unfinished business to attend to here. A thought flashed into his head and he hoped to heaven they were not about to die by mischance - the mischance that the officer in the cab would decide to collect the sentry himself. Then the truck turned on to the road and drove off as an armoured car came over the bridge, skidded round the corner, and followed the truck along the road to Fontaine. Barnes jumped up.
Term! Now!'
He grabbed Penn's arm as he came round the end of the bridge and hustled him along the bank.
'Down behind these bushes. Whatever happens, don't open fire unless you've got to. The first patrol will probably drive on, leaving the last one to pick you up. If the first one does stop we'll have to wipe them out and then deal with the second one.'
'They're bound to search for...'
'Not necessarily - they may think you were picked up by one of the last trucks when they can't find you. I'll be over on the other side.'
Barnes ran back flat-footed to avoid tripping. He crossed the road in a sprint, ran farther along the bank and dropped down behind some bushes twenty yards back from the road. From this position he commanded the northern side of the bridge and the road beyond. With Penn facing him they would have the patrols in a crossfire, although he hoped that it wouldn't come to that because the tail-end of the Panzer column wasn't far enough away yet. Let them be tired, he prayed, too tired to start poking around under the bridge. Then he saw lights and the first motor-cycle and side-car arrived.
It came over the bridge at speed, braking with a snarl of exhaust, screaming round the corner explosively, then it was gone. It happened so quickly that it almost took Barnes' breath away. Now they were only faced with the last patrol, the one which was bound to stop to pick up the sentry. He pressed himself closer to the earth, the machine-pistol stretched out in front of him, also flat on the ground to avoid any danger of light reflecting off it. He could hear the machine coming now, coming flat out as though anxious to collect the sentry and catch up the column. An impatient type. That might just help - someone who didn't like to spend too much tune hanging around lonely bridges in the middle of the night. Through the bushes he could see the light now, blurred by the tiny branches and leaves of the bushes, a light which rushed towards the bridge. His leg muscles tensed, his hands grasped the pistol. The roar of the motor-cycle was almost on top of them, the light showing on the parapet. Then it arrived, crossed the bridge, swerved, skidded madly on the corner, recovered its balance, and raced off up the road after the column.
B
arnes laughed silently, weakly, the spasm shaking his aching body. Of course! He'd got the system wrong! He must need a refresher course. The real sentry would have kept a close eye on the progress of the column and then waved down one of the last trucks to pick him up: motor-cycles had no wireless communication, no way of being told that there was a sentry ahead to be collected, and that last patrol which had gone over the bridge already carried a soldier in the side-car. All that tension, all that nerve-racking anxiety - all for nothing. He went across the road and told Penn.
'Jolly good,' was all Penn could find to say. 'Anyway, now we can relax,' he added.
'I'm afraid not - there's one fatal question we need the answer to before morning.'
It was half an hour before dawn and beneath the bridge the world was pitch black. Barnes switched on his torch and shook Pierre awake. The lad stirred, blinked in the glow of the beam, sat up, and ran his hands through his hair.
'More trouble, Sergeant?'
'No, but you seem anxious to do your bit. We are all just about exhausted and I'd like you to relieve Reynolds from guard duty if you would. It means three hours on the bridge because we won't be moving off before seven.'
'Certainly!' Pierre began to lace up his shoes. 'I am most willing to take my turn with all guard duties. I said so.'
'We'll see how you make out. All you have to do is to stand on the bridge and listen. Don't assume that if a vehicle is coming it will have its lights on - and remember, it may not be coming from the south like the others. In fact, I'm more worried about them sending someone back from the north if they find out they're one sentry missing.'
'I will watch very carefully.'
'At the first sight or sound of anything coming you run down here and wake me - is that clear?'
'Perfectly.' He reached out for the machine-pistol, but Barnes' hand closed over the weapon. 'I'll need something, won't I?' Pierre protested.
'Yes - your eyes and your ears. I'm not risking you letting loose at something in the dark which turns out to be a shrub instead of a crouching man. Up you go.'
Barnes waited until Pierre was climbing up to the bridge and then he ran back under the archway, crossed the river without making a sound, clambered up the opposite bank, and settled himself behind the shrub which had concealed him when he had watched the progress of the Panzer column. He was now hidden on all sides because the lower part of his body was submerged under a clump of brambles. From where he lay he could hear Pierre and Reynolds talking on the bridge, followed by, the sound of the driver slithering down the bank as he returned to the archway. After that the only noise came from the bridge itself where Pierre had begun to patrol backwards and forwards, his footfalls a soft tread in the night. Gradually, Barnes found that he was able to see the patrolling figure as a vague silhouette beyond the parapet, a silhouette completely unaware that he was being checked. By the time the false dawn began to glow in the east Barnes had come to the conclusion that Pierre would make an excellent sentry: at frequent intervals the lad paused at either end of the bridge to listen for a whole minute before he resumed his march back and forth, and once or twice he glanced over the parapet wall and looked along the river as though he feared they might be subjected to a surprise attack either upstream or downstream. Dammit, thought Barnes, he might have been trained for the job.
The real dawn was beginning to show, pale shafts of cold light low down on the horizon, when Barnes found himself in difficulties. He had lain quite still ever since he had taken up his position, putting up with an ache in his right leg which steadily grew worse, when suddenly he was subjected to an attack of cramp. Forcing himself not to move, he felt the cramp take hold, compressing and kneading the leg muscles of his calf mercilessly, to such a fierce degree that he had to dig his fingers into the ground to bear it. He was determined not to move since Pierre had now stopped at his end of the bridge, his face turned towards where Barnes lay as he watched the dawn grow stronger, and any sound would alert Pierre and warn him that he was under observation. Sweat began to trickle over Barnes' face as he struggled with all his will-power to keep the leg flat until the pain receded, which gradually it did, and when the cramp had gone Pierre resumed his patrol, almost as though he had waited so as to cause Barnes the maximum agony.
Through the shrub Barnes could now see the field beyond which rose gently to a ridge. From his personal reconnaissance of the area shortly after they had first arrived he knew that beyond the ridge the ground fell away sharply to a lower level. It was, in fact, the one blind approach spot in the vicinity of the bridge, the one place where an enemy patrol could come close to the bridge without being observed at a distance. It was also the spot to which his eyes were now glued, and as he watched the line of the ridge grew clearer until it was sharply outlined against the dawn sky which was streaked with splashes of grey and gold, the genesis of another glorious day. Pierre had stopped again, this time on the far side of the bridge, and the absolute silence of early morning seemed uncanny, unreal, a silence that Barnes imagined he could almost hear. It was also chilly and several times he shivered as the cold penetrated his battledress and began to freeze his body, the low temperature accentuated by the presence of early morning dew which had settled on his uniform and coated his hands with a film of moisture. Beyond the ridge a spiral of white mist was rising from the ground, the curtain of vapour blurring the dawn light so that he could almost convince himself that there was movement behind the mist. A few minutes later he detected human movement beyond the ridge.
Gradually, the vague figure moved higher up the ridge and then stood stock still. Barnes tensed, fingers closing over the revolver in his right hand, bis eyes staring at the silent figure half hidden in the mist so that it was impossible to identify the clothes it wore. The figure was two-dimensional, without depth, faintly outlined against the light behind it until the mist swirled away and he saw that it was the upper half of a soldier wearing a greatcoat and a pudding-shaped helmet. He could hear Pierre crossing the bridge again and then the footfalls ceased abruptly; when he glanced sideways Pierre had disappeared, crouched down behind the parapet wall. This will test his reflexes, Barnes told himself grimly.
The helmeted soldier remained motionless, staring in the general direction of the bridge as though he sensed danger. Now the silence was heavy and ominous, like the moment before the storm breaks. Barnes waited. Pierre waited. The German soldier waited. The soldier stood so still that he might have been a statue, and now Barnes' attention was concentrated on two points' - the ridge in front of him and the parapet wall to his side. Then without warning the soldier marched up to the crest of the ridge and came down the other side, a slow deliberate approach as though he had not seen anything yet but he still didn't like the look of the bridge. He could easily be the advance guard of a patrol sent out to find out what had happened to the sentry, a patrol which had been clever enough to cross the river higher up so that they could approach the area unexpectedly from the south side in the hope of taking the enemy by surprise.
He came forward holding a machine-pistol across his body, a body which stooped forward, the face blurred by remnants of dissolving mist. Barnes heard a rustle from behind the parapet where Pierre crouched, and when the rustle stopped the only sound in the heavy stillness was the faint tread of the oncoming soldier's boots, a tread so light that Barnes knew he was trying to walk cat-footed as he crept forward. Halfway between the ridge and the bridge he stopped, head to one side, listening. Then he began to advance again and Barnes raised himself slightly. This was it. Any second now. He heard a scrabbling sound from the bridge and Pierre stood up, his hands in the air. He was calling out as he walked forward into the open, walking more rapidly when the soldier didn't open fire, calling out urgently. Barnes stood up, his battledress rumpled, hands by his sides, and also emerged into the open as Pierre reached a point midway between the bridge and the soldier who now swivelled his machine-pistol to train it on Barnes. Turning, Pierre saw Barnes and called out aga
in, one hand pointing, jabbing in Barnes' direction. He began to run towards the soldier, shouting at the top of his voice, insistently, continuously. A short distance from the helmeted figure he stopped abruptly, his voice dying away as Barnes walked briskly across the field towards the two men. Pierre had been shouting non-stop in German until he saw the face under the helmet, the face of Penn wearing the German sentry's greatcoat and helmet.
'You were right about this rat, then.' Penn levelled his machine-pistol at Pierre's stomach.
'Strange behaviour for a Belgian patriot,' said Barnes. 'Very strange behaviour. He sees a German soldier come over the top and instead of calling me he runs up to him.'
Penn held the butt of the pistol under his arm, one hand still round the trigger guard while he used the other to undo the top button of his German greatcoat.
'This thing chokes me. As you were saying - I thought he'd never react. So we've trapped ourselves a dirty little spy.'
'He didn't react at once because he thought a whole infantry platoon would be coming over the ridge behind you. My appearance on the scene jolted him into action. You made several mistakes, Pierre.'
'What mistakes? I do not make mistakes.' Pierre drew himself up, a sneer on his young face, making no attempt to deny the charges. He even ran his fingers through his hair to straighten it.