Tramp in Armour

by Colin Forbes

  Barnes lay still for a moment, collecting himself, still clutching the machine-pistol. He had been warned by the shriek of brakes and he had been saved by the pillow of spare canvas between himself and the rear of the cab, and his own body had saved Jacques when the lad was thrown against him. They got up cautiously, like men expecting a limb to fall off, and Colburn was waiting for them at the foot of the open cab door, his pistol under his arm, blood oozing from a cut on his forehead and gash on the back of his left hand. He said they were little more than scratches.

  'Is Reynolds all right?' asked Barnes.

  'Reynolds is all right,' said Reynolds from the cab. 'I don't know why, but he's all right. Probably only because he was inside this brute - we went through that wall like going through paper. I'm sorry, Sergeant,' he added, 'but I was concentrating on the truck and when we got over the bridge the wall was on top of me. And by the way, this job,' he banged the wheel, 'is a write-off. So it's back to Bert now.'

  'You did damned well. No one could have survived in that . truck - I riddled it before you bounced it over the edge and then the petrol went up - but I'll go back and make sure in a minute. It's a good job you braked when you did - we wouldn't have gone through that like paper.'

  He pointed to the house. Barely six feet beyond where the transporter had pulled up stood an ancient three-storey mansion. All the windows were broken, a wall creeper almost covered the front door, and the garden in which the transporter rested was knee-deep in weeds. No one had lived there for a long time, which was probably just as well: opening the front door to find a tank transporter in the garden could be a disconcerting experience. Reynolds tried the engine several times but it refused to function, and while Barnes went back over the bridge Colburn and Jacques helped the driver to pull the tarpaulin off Bert.

  Barnes approached the bridge with caution. Reaching the top he crouched behind the wall and peered over the edge to where the wrecked truck was still on fire. There was no sign of life but there was every sign of death. The vehicle had landed with its wheels in the air and by the light of the flames he saw huddled shapes lying in the grass, but the only thing which moved was the flames. Few of the men in the back could have survived the murderous fire of his machine-pistol, and any who did would have perished when the truck tumbled down the steep embankment. He doubted whether anyone was alive when the petrol tank blew. When he turned round to walk back he froze, his taut nerves trying to cope with the fact that a new crisis was at hand.

  Headlights were coming down the road from the opposite direction. They were still some distance away but he gained the impression that they were approaching at speed. Running down the slope he heard the welcome sound of Bert's engines starting up, but they still had to lower the ramp and bring Bert down it, and he knew there wouldn't be time to do that before the oncoming vehicle arrived. Colburn must have seen something in his face because he asked the question immediately.

  'More trouble?'

  'I'm not sure. There's something coming down the road from the north - on its own.'

  'We'd better set up an ambush. I'll take the other side of the road...'

  'No, stick with me - otherwise we may end up shooting each other. Jacques, tell Reynolds to switch off his engine and sit tight. You get behind the end wall of the house and stay there. Come on, Colburn...'

  The vehicle was quite close now and it sounded like a car, but it was still hidden by the bend in the road, and it was still travelling at high speed. They ran a short distance into the garden, stopping at a point where an undamaged section of the wall was shoulder-high. Peering over the wall-top beyond the bend Barnes saw that the headlights were quite close. He ducked out of sight and heard the car begin to lose speed as the headlights reached the bend. Well, they wouldn't get far once they turned the corner and found half the wall strewn in their path. He looked back and wasn't too happy to see that the glow of fire beyond the bridge clearly silhouetted the transporter with a British tank nestling on its deck.

  'I think it's stopping,' Colburn whispered.

  'It's bloody well going to have to.'

  'It may be a civilian.'

  'Only people like Jacques are mad enough to drive about in battle zones.'

  He timed it carefully, keeping low as the car crawled round the bend and then pulled up, its engine still ticking over. As he lifted his head he heard a clash of gears and the car began to reverse back round the bend. He had a quick impression -a black Mercedes staff car, the hood back, a German soldier driving and beside him an officer in a peaked cap clutching something to his chest. It was almost beyond the bend now, reversing rapidly. He lifted the machine-pistol, cradled it into his. shoulder, and rested the barrel on the wall-top. Aiming about two feet above the headlights he fired. One long burst. He heard a brief shatter of breaking glass and the car went crazy, still reversing but snaking from side to side. He fired again, arcing the gun. The car swung wildly sideways, crashed its rear into the wall and halted, its headlights shining on the opposite wall. The engine had stopped.

  The driver was hunched over the wheel, head and shoulders drenched in blood. The passenger-seat door was open and the officer lay in the roadway on his back, capless, arms outstretched, staring up at the stars. A few feet from his right hand lay a half-open briefcase, the case he had clutched so firmly to his chest when the emergency had arisen. Barnes checked the officer, whose chest was torn with the bullets where the arc had moved across him and lifted one shoulder. He was a major, a dead major. Picking up the briefcase, Barnes took out a paper while Colburn examined the rear seat; holding the paper in front of the headlights he grunted.

  'This is your pigeon. You said you could speak German, Colburn, can you read it as well? This looks as though it could be interesting.'

  'Let me have a look.'

  He scanned the lines briefly and then looked up, his face very serious.

  'This is interesting. It's a battle order and this copy is for some Advanced Headquarters. Let me check it again to make sure I've got it right.'

  'This staff car can tell us something;' said Barnes thoughtfully. 'They can't possibly be expecting anyone coming up from this direction or else it wouldn't be travelling without escort. We may surprise the bastards yet.'

  'This document* is going to surprise you, Barnes. The German 14th Panzer Division is going to attack Dunkirk at dawn. They've found some secret road to the port just under the water - the whole area must be flooded along that part of the front as far as I can gather. Apparently this road is built up from the surrounding countryside so it's only a few inches under the floods.'

  'Does it give the start-line for the attack?'

  * Not only sergeants are lucky with documents. Twenty-four hours earlier, Lt-Gen Sir Alan Brooke, commander 11 Corps BEF, was handed a battle order captured from a German staff car which warned of an imminent offensive by Gen von Bock's Army Group B - just in time for him to move more troops into the threatened area.

  'Yes, the funny thing is it's Jacques' home town - the attack is being launched from Lemont at 04.00 hours.'

  Barnes knew that at the eleventh hour he had found his worthwhile objective. He checked his watch. 12.25 am.

  'We'll forget about Calais,' he said. 'Jacques is going to take us home.'

  'It gives the name of the general who's leading the attack.'

  'Really?' Barnes wasn't too interested as they hurried back to the transporter.

  'Yes. A General Heinrich Storch.'

  TWELVE

  Sunday, May 26th

  Storch jumped out of the staff car, checked his watch, briefly acknowledged the salute of the waiting officer, walked down the hedge-lined lane on the outskirts of Lemont. 12.45 AM. Less than four hours to dawn. The lights of an armoured car at the end of the lane showed him the way while beyond the hedge on his left, to the north, the light of the moon shone down over the flooded areas, a vast lake which might have been the sea. When he reached the car he stopped and turned to the officer who had follow
ed him.

  'So here it is, Keller - the start line of the final advance. It doesn't look much from here, does it?'

  The lights of the armoured car beamed north across a flooded field below the level of the lane. Water stretched as far as the eye could see towards Dunkirk, but standing up above the surface of the lake ran a double line of six-foot poles like slim telegraph poles immersed by the inundation.

  'Keller, how far do the marker posts stretch?'

  'Ten kilometres, sir. We felt it inadvisable to mark the passage any further at the moment.'

  'Quite right, Keller, quite right.'

  Storch paused, slapping his gloves slowly against the side of his leg. He was in an excellent humour and when this mood took him he liked to show his subordinates that their general was capable of a certain light-hearted touch.

  'So, Keller, you are telling me that between those posts lies the road to Dunkirk - that we do not have to possess supernatural powers like Christ to walk upon the waters?'

  . Keller, a religious man, as Storch knew well, blinked and stirred uneasily. What could be in Storch's mind now? He kept his face expressionless and answered with admirable brevity.

  'Yes, sir.'

  Keller waited anxiously. He was never quite sure how to deal with the situation when Storch talked like this for it was closely akin to another mood which could be the precursor to an almighty row. He said nothing further and waited while the general walked to the front of the armoured car, standing to gaze for a moment through the gap in the hedge. Then, without warning, Storch marched forward between the posts, his boots splashing up water but never sinking more than six inches below the waterline. He walked on and on, almost out of sight, and then came back again, deliberately kicking up great spurts of water like a small child on its first day by the sea. Reaching the armoured car, he paused and lifted his night glasses to look the other way, focusing his gaze to the south where a line of heavy tanks was drawn up along the extension of the road on higher ground. Beyond the tanks he could see the small airfield which was serving as the main tank laager and beyond the groups of small dark shapes loomed the hangar, the main ammunition dump. Meyer had once again complained that everything was crammed into too confined an area but the floods had dictated that. At that moment Keller had the misfortune to say the wrong thing.

  'I hear, sir, that the main dump is very close to the laager.'

  'You'd like to move it, Keller?' Storch inquired.

  'No, sir. I just thought... that is ... Colonel Meyer ...'

  'Meyer has been here recently?'

  'Only for a few minutes - to check the water level...'

  'Really, Keller, it is most fortunate for you that I have only wet my boots. Had the water risen to my thighs we might well have had to look for your replacement. Till 04.00 hours, Keller!'

  Barnes rubbed his eyes and checked his watch. 12.45 AM. The tank rumbled along the side road, its lights full on, the tracks churning round at top speed. In the turret beside him Jacques warned that they were approaching the southern outskirts of Lemont. The French lad knew exactly where he was and now he felt strangely excited as the road he had known since boyhood rolled past under them. He had chosen a roundabout route to enter the village and Barnes had asked him to find a place where they could park Bert safely for a short time. He thought he knew just the place.

  Inside the tank Colburn sat behind the two-pounder in Davis' old seat. A loaded machine-pistol lay across his lap and already he was becoming accustomed to the small metal room, the gentle sway of the hull, the endless grumble of the tracks. He missed the fresh air of five thousand feet up but at least here he had solid ground under his body. Oddly enough, now that they were so close to the battle zone the thunder of the guns had died, as though preserving their energies - and their ammunition - for one final effort when day came. And daylight was close now. But he was on edge because he had nothing definite to do, and in this respect he envied Reynolds. The driver in the nose of the tank had his head projecting above the hatch and gazed stolidly forward. His hands held the steering levers stiffly because his arms felt as though they were on fire and even the slightest movement increased the pain. They were almost there, Barnes had said, and Reynolds was anxious to get it over with. Now that they were so close to the Allied lines and that Dover was just across the water he found himself thinking of England and home. With a bit of luck they'd soon be there. He'd be able to get some leave and go back to Peckham. A pint of bitter at The Grey Horse. It made him feel thirsty and then he forgot about it as Barnes' voice came down the intercom with a fresh instruction.

  'You turn left,' Jacques had just told Barnes, 'just beyond that white building.'

  Barnes gave the order. 'And that farm you mentioned, Jacques, those isolated outhouses...'

  He broke off as the tank turned down a narrow track. At the , edge of the headlights he could see a strangely familiar shape, and when the track curved the beams played full on the bulky silhouette. Barnes stiffened and as Jacques pointed to the farm buildings beyond an open gateway he gave the order to halt.

  The stationary vehicle which had startled him was tilted over at an acute angle, lying just inside the field with one track caught in a deep ditch. It was Bert's twin brother - a Matilda tank. Jumping to the ground he walked towards it, hearing Colburn's footsteps behind him. When he played his torch over the tank he saw that it was derelict, half the turret blown away, its right-hand track torn loose, the rear of the hull burnt black.

  'Looks like one of yours,' Colburn suggested quietly.

  'It's one of ours all right. There's been a helluva scrap here. Look.'

  In the field behind the tank uniformed bodies lay scattered across the grass, on their stomachs, on their backs, on their sides, and sometimes the uniforms were German but many were British and all dead. Barnes picked up several rifles and found them empty. There was only one tank, the single Matilda, and in its solitude it seemed to emphasize the terrible shortage of armoured forces with the BEF.

  'The Panzers came through,' he remarked to Colburn, who made no reply.

  They walked farther down the track and by the gateway they found more empty rifles, British .303s, their dead owners lying close by. Barnes followed his torch beam cautiously into a yard surrounded by outbuildings and when they searched them they found that the place was deserted - deserted of human life but there were several British fifteen-hundred-weight trucks parked round the edges of the yard which had obviously been some minor transport depot. Inside the buildings were more trucks and further evidence that a unit had been in residence recently - a pile of unwashed billy cans, a dixie full of scummy water, several respirators and a Lewis gun without a magazine.

  'I'd like to have another look at that truck in there,' said Colburn, flashing his torch on a truck with an RE flash at the rear.

  'I'll be back in a minute. I want to get Bert parked.'

  Barnes left the Canadian and explored the area immediately round the buildings, finding only empty fields which were strangely still and silent in the pale warm moonlight, the air heavy and muggy as the earth released the heat of yesterday, the buzz of unseen insects in his ears. Across the fields he could see a roof-line which looked as though it had been cut from cardboard - the roofs of Lemont - and behind them a solitary searchlight wearily probed the sky. When he returned to where he had left the Canadian he found him inside the truck which carried the RE flash. He was shining his torch over layers of wooden boxes.

  'I want to do a recce into Lemont on foot from here,' Barnes told him. 'Jacques has agreed to take me in so I'm leaving you and Reynolds with the tank. This is a better place than I thought we'd get to park Bert - the Germans are hardly likely to come poking around a place where there's already been a dust-up and this stuff's no use to them. It's only a handful of bits and pieces, anyway.'

  'There's more than a handful of these, Barnes. You know what they are, of course - detonators. There's enough stuff here to blow up half Ottawa - including gun-
cotton, a plunger, and God knows what else. This truck belonged to a demolition unit.'

  'For God's sake mind what you're doing, then... Sorry, I'd forgotten. Detonators are your business.'

  Barnes sat down on an old wooden crate pushed against the wall and tried to think straight. His shoulder wound had been playing him up foully ever since he had crashed back into the tank transporter when he was trying to reach the deck from the cab. It was pounding like an iron hammer now and he wondered whether he had the energy to walk one step farther. Well, he'd have to walk quite a few steps farther if they were going to try and find out what the position was inside Lemont, and Jacques had blithely told him the best thing would be to try and reach his father. The fact that his father lived in a house in the main part of the village on top of a small hill overlooking some private airfield, and that this meant a long walk from where they were now, hadn't seemed to worry Jacques. but it worried Barnes when he thought of them making their way through enemy-held streets. He made the effort and was walking out to give instructions to Reynolds when he stopped in the doorway in surprise. Colburn was whistling under his breath, a tuneless melody. Colburn was in his element as he explored more boxes.