by Colin Forbes
'Road-block,' said Barnes tersely.
Colburn stirred beside him. 'Hadn't we better move up closer to Jacques?'
'No, we stay here. Reynolds, switch off the headlights but leave the side ones on - we may have a visitor in a minute. And turn off the motor -I want to hear what's going on - but get ready to start it again as soon as I tell you.'
Leaning out of the window, he turned his head and listened. The big guns had obligingly paused with their cannonade and he heard a voice, a staccato voice probably speaking in German. Then Jacques began to turn the car round in the road. He had only commenced the operation when a burst of machine-pistol fire shattered the night. The car stopped in mid-turn and ran back into the ditch, its front wheels still on the road. Barnes had his head poked out of the window when he heard another burst. As it broke off he detected a faint noise and looked up the road but it was difficult to see anything between the transporter and the Renault, whose lights were now beamed across the road. Colburn grasped Barnes by the arm.
'For God's sake...'
'Quiet! I think he's almost here.'
The running footsteps were very close and as Barnes jumped down into the road Jacques appeared, his breathing laboured, his expression bleak. He spoke rapidly.
Tm all right. They opened fire when I wouldn't drive up to
them. As far as I could see there's only three or four of them
but they've got a pole across the road'
'Any sign of a field gun? A gun with a shield and a big barrel?'
'No, but there was one man crouched by the roadside behind a sort of rifle on legs.'
'Anti-tank rifle. Which side is he on?'
'The left as you approach them. I saw a motor-cycle and side-car behind the rifle...'
'Anyone in it?'
'No, but there are three more men behind the barrier - it was one of them that fired at me. I managed to get out of the car on this side.'
'Get up here quick.' Barnes was unfastening one corner of the tarpaulin and he held it while Jacques scrambled up on to the transporter deck. 'Get on to the tank behind the cab and lie flat on the engine covers - the turret should shield you from any bullets that may be flying about.'
'We're going through it?' asked Jacques.
'Yes, so keep your head down.'
Re-fastening the tarpaulin, he climbed back into the cab and gave the order to move. He held the muzzle of his machine-pistol well below windscreen level and Colburn extracted his own pistol from under the seat. The transporter began to move forward, headlights blazing again, while inside the cab three men gazed fixedly ahead.
'No shooting unless we can't avoid it,' Barnes warned. 'We stopped and they'll think there's something funny about that but they'll recognize their own vehicle. We're not stopping whatever happens and they may lift the pole. Reynolds, get up some speed and keep going - I'd like at least forty miles an hour when we reach that barrier, more if you can manage it.'
The transporter began picking up speed fast as Reynolds put his foot down. He had reached a speed well in excess of forty as they flew past the abandoned Renault and ahead the lights of the road-block rushed towards them. Barnes was leaning well forward now, straining his eyes to see as much as possible before they reached the obstacle, which was clearly visible in their headlights - a narrow pole mounted several feet above the road. And something else, too. On the left a soldier lay behind the anti-tank rifle, while beyond rose the silhouette of the motor-cycle and side-car, a soldier already astride the cycle. The pole remained obstinately down. Barnes shouted.
'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 forward 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 himself 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 transmission. 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, examining 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 condition 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 th
e 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 Headquarters. 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 Headquarters 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 behind 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 surprised 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 tarpaulin 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 himself 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.
It was a terrible struggle to recover quickly, to get his choking breath back to normal, to push under the blinding waves of pain, but two things stimulated his recovery - the rush of fresh air and the insistent shrieking of the horn which continually alerted him of the imminent danger. Telling Jacques to keep flat he forced himself up on his knees, scooping up a ridge of tarpaulin to conceal his position. Then he extracted two spare magazines from his pockets, rested them behind the ridge and lowered himself flat, the machine-pistol next to his shoulder. Clubbing his fist he gave the agreed signal, banging three times on the rear of the cab.
The transporter stopped weaving and pulled over to the right side of the road, still moving at high speed, allowing free access for the truck to pass. I've got to get this just right, Barnes told himself. Head down until the exact moment when the covered part of the truck is alongside us - the part which sheltered the troops inside. No need to fire at the driver at once -I want to get the lot - and they won't shoot at Reynolds from their own cab for fear he swerves into them. He kept his head down and heard the truck coming up as Reynolds drove well into his own lane. The truck was coming up with a roar. He felt the transporter lift slightly as they started going uphill. Now! He flattened the canvas ridge with the gun muzzle and his heart sank - the truck was much farther past than he had expected, the cab already beyond Reynolds, the covered side spread out in front of him. Pressing the trigger he swivelled the gun methodically low down along the canvas wall, just above the wooden side, sweeping the muzzle in slow arcs. Empty! He was ramming in a fresh magazine when Jacques called out: a German soldier peered round the end of the truck, machine-pistol aimed. Barnes fired, the man fell into the road as Barnes swivelled the muzzle back again, his finger pressing steadily on the trigger, a stream of bullets ripping and tearing through the canvas a
long one continuous strip. At that moment Reynolds took a hand.
The road was climbing an embankment up to a bridge and the driver gave the pre-arranged signal, two long blasts on his own horn. Barnes shouted to Jacques to hold on tight and braced himself for the impact as the transporter began to speed up and edge across the road, moving ahead of the truck as it shifted its course to hit the truck broadside on. They were close to the summit when the German driver lost his nerve, swerving away when the colossus was only inches from him.
Lifting his head Barnes saw the truck spin over sideways, falling from view. As they went over the bridge he heard a muffled thump, a boom, and then flames flared in the night behind them. The petrol tank had gone. The next thing he heard was a terrifying shriek of brakes, the transporter's brakes.
The view from the cab was frightening. Reynolds had heard the stutter of Barnes' gun, had concentrated half his attention on that final manoeuvre which had destroyed the truck, then he was sweeping over the bridge at high speed. The road was going down now and he saw what faced him in a flash. Head-, lights blazed on a stone wall dead ahead, a right-hand turn at the bottom. Then the headlights were swinging wildly as he desperately tried to negotiate the unexpected hazard, braking, turning, going straight through the wall with a tremendous smash, the immense weight of the vehicle piercing the wall like butter. The whole transporter shuddered, knocking aside a small tree, skidded across the garden, then it stopped.