Tramp in Armour

by Colin Forbes

  Dahlheim had fired at random, Barnes felt sure of it because the barrel had been wobbling all over the place. Two more shots entered the ceiling and then the gun fell harmlessly on the floor. Jerking his head round as the pistol skidded against the wall, Barnes looked up and saw Reynolds topple, an expression of amazed disbelief on his large face as he fell and hit the floor with a tremendous crash. Groggily, Barnes climbed to his feet and his legs nearly gave way under him as he picked up the rifle, wobbled forward, and took up a position behind Dahlheim who was now rolling on the floor. He managed to lift the weapon several feet and bring it down again. Even in his weakened state the force of the blow was so great that the rifle jumped out of his hands and fell beside the now motionless German. Kicking the rifle away against the wall he picked up the pistol which still held five cartridges and pushed it down inside his own empty holster, wondering what the devil they had done with his own gun.

  'Reynolds!'

  He had a terrible job turning the driver over and then Reynolds began stirring and cursing foully. There was plenty of blood on his left thigh but on making a quick examination Barnes found that the bullet had passed through without lodging in the flesh. He applied a field dressing he always carried and managed to seat the driver in Berg's chair, an operation which took away nearly all his remaining strength. Inwardly he was swearing. Of all the bloody bad luck. Davis killed by the accident of falling rock. Penn shot down by an envenomed looter. And now Reynolds wounded by a wobbling hand that had hardly been able to hold the gun, let alone aim the bloody thing. Then his eyes fell on his watch. When the chair had gone over sideways the face had been smashed in the fall and the hands had stopped at 2.40 am.

  He stood by the desk for a moment, looking down at Reynolds' haggard face, his thoughts torn and muddled between his wounded driver and the knowledge that within eighty minutes the Panzers he had seen with Jacques from the ridge above the airfield would be on the move, creeping along the underwater road which the French lad had pointed towards. He pulled himself together, refusing to give way to the fatigue clogging his limbs. Think, Barnes, there are things to do.

  He opened Berg's drawer to collect his pay-book, found his own revolver inside, still loaded, and substituted it for the German's gun.

  Reynolds suddenly became talkative and told his sergeant to leave him there since he couldn't possibly walk or drive. But Barnes just nodded, went to the front door and looked carefully along the silent street. He wasted several precious minutes dragging the dead sentry's body inside the house, but if a patrol came along he didn't want the alarm raised if it could be avoided. Dropping the body next to Dahlheim's, he took a deep breath and began the intricate manoeuvre of hoisting the driver on to his back. Bent double under the great weight, hearing Reynolds' feet trailing on the floor, he staggered out of the house and wrestled him inside the side-car while his burden protested that the noise of the engine would give them away. Without replying, Barnes went back into the house, switched off the desk light and came out again, closing the door behind Mm.

  The starting of the motor-cycle seemed a louder noise than any he had ever heard, but he had made up his mind - he must find a safer place to park Reynolds. The street was still deserted as he drove away from Lemont and reached the outbuildings, cutting the engine quickly and calling out to warn Colburn who emerged from behind a wall with a machine-pistol at the ready. They made Reynolds as comfortable as possible by sitting him on some straw inside one of the buildings - Barnes was determined that this time he would take no wounded crew member on what might be Bert's final journey. And, he thought grimly, for this journey his crew was now reduced to two - himself and Colburn.

  At 3.20 am they were ready to move, but only because they had worked like Trojans. Barnes looked up at Colburn who now occupied his own position inside the turret - the tank commander himself was going to have to drive Bert on his last trip.

  'You really think it will work, Colburn?'

  'It's more likely to than your idea of firing shells into the dump. That way there's no guarantee at all that you'll get a major explosion, but you can bet your sweet life that when this lot goes it'll -lift the whole dump sky-high - just supposing we ever get close enough and just supposing we don't go up before we get there. If we do, they won't have any burial problems with us. Just look down there - this tank is one ruddy great bomb.'

  The floor of the turntable at the base of the turret had been tightly packed with gun-cotton slabs and to this lethal foundation Colburn had added a quantity of instantaneous detonating fuses, several cans of petrol, a quantity of phosphorus and some grenades he had found in a satchel. The remaining grenades were still in the satchel hanging from the top of the turret where he could reach them easily. Even closer to hand was the plunger mechanism and a large spool of wire. Colburn pointed to the plunger.

  'And just supposing, Barnes, that we do get a chance to get clear of the tank before this lot goes up...'

  'Don't bet on that, Colburn.'

  'Hell, I'm not betting on a damned thing. But just supposing you're on your own then, don't forget to take the coil of wire as well as the plunger with you. The wire's paid out through the gun slit so you can ram the lid shut - ramming the lid shut is important because it locks everything inside and increases the power of the explosion quite a bit...'

  'We've got to get moving, Colburn.'

  'For Christ's sake, I know I'm telling you twice but it may save your life. Before you press the plunger you must turn this switch. This device is as harmless as a kitten until you do turn the switch. Come to think of it, Barnes, I reckon we've got rather too many "supposings" in this equation.'

  'We've also got seventy two-pounder shells and boxes of Besa ammunition to pep up the explosion.'

  'I know. I just hope I'm around when that lot goes up - it will be the crowning blow-up of my career to date. When I say "around" I do mean at the very end of that paid-out wire,' he added.

  'We'd better get moving, Colburn. I've a nasty idea we're too late already with riddling around with your little toy. You'll have to handle all the observation and talk to me over the intercom. Think you can manage?'

  'A damn sight better than I'd manage driving Bert. OK. As ' the bomber crew guys say, this is the final run-in.'

  'Which is pretty appropriate since it's a mobile bomb we've got for delivery to General Storch.'

  Three minutes later the tank was moving through the village at full speed, its headlights ablaze, rumbling down the deserted street like an avenging phantom. It was their only chance, Barnes felt sure of that - to press forward as though they owned the place in the same way that Mandel had described the advance of the Panzers across France. And it was their one advantage - the element of total surprise, an element which must be rammed home ruthlessly right up to the moment when they reached the airfield, if they ever did reach it. The appearance of a tank in the early hours with its lights full on must cause a reaction of doubt, of indecision, for at least a few vital seconds, and in that time Bert should pass any patrol they might encounter. It was all a question of how soon they ran up against the big stuff.

  They were moving past the house where Reynolds had saved him, he felt sure of it, although his vision was limited and he was relying heavily on Colburn's guidance over the intercom. The driver's seat was closed to its lowest level and the hood over his head was shut, sealing him off from the outside world so that his only view was through the slit window in front. Four inches of bullet-proof glass protected that slit while 70-mm of armour-plate shielded him from shell-fire -the thickest plate covered the front hull - so theoretically he was fairly safe. Unless the tank caught fire and when he rolled back the hood he found the two-pounder barrel pointed straight ahead and depressed to its lowest elevation, in which case the barrel would form a steel bar preventing him from climbing out at all while the tank burned. Cynical drivers said that was why the driver was issued with a revolver - to give him an easier way out than frying alive. Why the hell am I
thinking like this, Barnes wondered? Perhaps only now he was really appreciating what poor Reynolds had gone through.

  He hoped that if it really came to it, Colburn did know how to use a Mills hand grenade. The Canadian had told him that a British staff sergeant had demonstrated their use on a bombing range and Barnes could imagine Colburn taking a great interest in how the mechanism worked. Still...

  'Barnes,' Colburn's voice came clearly over the one-way intercom. 'We're approaching a square and from that sketch-map you. drew me we go straight over, but there may be a problem - I can see lights. Keep moving, I'll keep you in touch.'

  Up in the turret Colburn stared anxiously ahead. The lights shone through some trees in an open square surrounded with two-storey houses and the beams were stationary. He couldn't see any sign of troops, any hint of danger, just those lights coming through the trees. Barnes had told him that as far as he had been able to make out when he reconnoitred the village with Jacques the place had been evacuated of civilians, which would be logical since the Germans were using it as a forward base. They had penetrated as far as the house of Jacques' father and he had not been at home. So any sign of life was likely to be hostile life. The square, apparently deserted, came closer and Colburn moved from side to side as he tried to see behind the trees. There was something there, then he saw them.

  'Barnes. A couple of motor-cycles and side-cars at the edge of this square. They've got lights on but there doesn't seem to be anyone about...'

  Barnes coaxed a little more speed from the engines, staring along his headlight beams which now stretched across the small square to the street beyond. He sat wedged in between the boxes of detonators which were stacked on either side and the proximity of so much explosive wasn't a comfortable feeling, but he had insisted on loading these spare boxes to increase the power of the bomb. Now he wondered whether he had overdone it. Highly unstable, British detonators, Colburn had said. The Germans used Trotyl, which was far less temperamental. And Colburn was, a man who should know. They were halfway across the square now and subconsciously he was listening for the first sound of Colburn's voice, because if he spoke now that would mean trouble. The avenue of darkness ahead moved towards him and then they left the square and the beams stabbed along a straight street. Colburn's voice was tense.

  'They came out just as we left the square - a couple of Germans. They stopped and stared for a few seconds and then ran for one of the bikes.'

  Barnes gazed ahead. It was starting already. There was a turning down to the left he had to negotiate soon and that would mean reducing speed a lot, and this was the last moment they should be slowing down if one of those motorcycles was after them. He wished to God that the intercom was two-way, that he could warn Colburn to watch the man in the side-car, the one who would be carrying a machine-pistol. Colburn's voice again.

  'The cycle is following us down this street. I know there's a left turn soon but keep up your speed. Don't worry, I'll handle it.'

  Colburn was really worried. He looked back to where the lights of the oncoming cycle were closing the gap rapidly. He realized the danger to himself perched up in the turret - if the cycle was allowed to come close enough the man in the side-; car would blast his head off with the machine-pistol he had seen him running with. He took one grenade out of the satchel and then he took another, laying the second one behind the plunger box where it couldn't roll: it wasn't an action that many would have taken but to Colburn the box was dead until the switch was turned. He also glanced down inside the turret towards the bed of gun-cotton. Don't drop this little feller down there, he told himself. He had his finger inside the ring-head of the pin now. Get it right, Colburn: allow for the tank's speed and the onrush of the cycle. And get it good. You're pitching the ball at Toronto. Removing bomb from pin, he counted. One, two, three, four. He threw. Without waiting his hand whipped over the second grenade, inserting his finger. Withdraw. Count. He had his head down as the first grenade blew only feet in front of the Germans. A hard lethal crack split the street. The flash lit the walls and the cycle climbed, taking the side-car with it, wheels spinning futilely, the side-car ripping away from the cycle. He threw the second one from inside the turret, just to get rid of it now that it was no longer needed, and by the flash of the second bomb he saw a shadowed wreck in the street behind it. Even the lights had gone. He let out his breath and the sound travelled down the intercom to Barnes.

  'Got them.'

  Colburn leant back against the turret and wiped sweat off his hands on his flying suit. He had shot men out of the air but this Was different. He had caught a brief glimpse of the man in the side-car pitching out head first towards the ground and he was amazed it was all over so quickly. He had been very frightened for those few minutes, so frightened that he had made a bad mistake in not wiping his hand earlier - that second grenade had nearly slipped, had nearly gone down inside the turret. The very thought of it made him sweat again but now that it was all over he felt enormously relieved, relieved that he was still alive. And this was a mere bagatelle, a single motor-cycle and side-car. What faced them somewhere just ahead would be on a far bigger scale. The headlights played on a distant wall with wording painted on the plaster. Restaurant de la Gare. He spoke quickly into the mike.

  'That building's coming up — the restaurant place. Prepare to turn left. I'll guide you.'

  Barnes was already reducing speed and he began turning very slowly, bis hands an extension of Colburn's instructions as they eased Bert round. The turning was sharp and almost at once they moved on to a downward slope of cobbles. He had to crawl round, edging his way as Colburn leaned out of the turret to check wall clearance, talking down the intercom all the time. They nearly scraped the right-hand wall, then they were round the corner, the tank straightening up and proceeding down the cobbled street, its metal tracks grinding and clattering over the stones. That was close, Colburn was thinking, but we managed it nicely between us. He peered along the beams, still savouring the sensation of relief, wondering how Barnes was feeling.

  Inside the nose of the tank Barnes was experiencing a rather different sensation - Barnes was in serious trouble and he wondered whether they had a dog's chance of making it as a chill of fear seeped through him. One of the detonator boxes had broken loose. It had happened on that last bend while he was struggling grimly to negotiate the corner and allow for the drop in street level. They were almost round the turning when he felt a heavy blow strike his right shoulder. Still in the process of taking Bert round the corner he only had time for a quick glance sideways and this showed him the heavy box projecting well beyond the one it rested on, kept stable now only by the obstacle of his own body. As he moved down the hill, the tank wobbling slightly as it rumbled over the cobbles, he tried to ease the box back into position with his shoulder. The action nearly made him jump out of his seat as pain from the maltreated wound screamed through his body, stabbing at his brain. For one terrible second he thought he was going to faint. He bit down on his lips to drive away the dizziness and reopened the cut in his mouth, tasting his own blood for the second time that night. The heavy box was pressing against his shoulder all the time and there wasn't a thing he could do about it, except to pray that at the next right-hand turn the box would regain its balance. Was he still driving straight? He forced himself to concentrate on the view through the slit window.

  'Barnes, I can see the canal embankment beyond the bottom of this street, so we're on the right road. And we turn right in a minute.'

  Barnes had been waiting for that right-hand turn but he knew that with both hands occupied with the steering levers his shoulder was still going to have to bear the brunt of shoving that box back against the wall. Would he be able to stand the pain; Colburn's voice again, a voice edged with tension, the sure sign of further trouble.

  'Something coming up ... a soldier in a doorway, a sentry, I think. Keep moving at this speed - we'll have to turn in less than a hundred yards...'

  Colburn ducked his h
ead inside the turret and waited, waited for the challenge, the pause, then the first burst of fire from the machine-pistol the sentry held across his chest. His own machine-pistol was gripped in his hands and he looked upward beyond the open rim of the turret. The tank clattered down over the cobbles, the dark silhouette of irregular rooftops slid past beyond the turret rim, cold specks of starlight glittered distantly in the late night sky. The moon was low now and an early morning chill prickled the back of his neck. Still no sound from the sentry. He couldn't stand it any longer: he peered over the rim. Nothing moved but he thought that he could still see the shadowed figure by the doorway, a motionless figure. It was incredible. Some of his astonishment travelled down the intercom.

  'Barnes, he never moved - he never moved. And we're in a British tank.'

  It worked, Barnes thought, the element of surprise worked there. Perhaps the sentry hadn't done his homework on tank silhouettes. He might have been posted there from other duties and he was tired out, so when a vehicle came down the streets of German-occupied Lemont with its headlights blazing he assumed that it must be all right. He could even~have been asleep on his feet. But the main thing was it had worked once and it could work again. Colburn's voice spoke urgently.

  'I can see the embankment clearly now - we're close to the turn. You'll have to watch this one, it's narrow. I'll guide you round...'