Complete Works of Nevil Shute

by Nevil Shute

  “Walk in ahead of us?”

  “I don’t see that there’d be much risk in that. With all these refugees about I can’t see that there’d be much risk in it. I’d rather do that than drive in with you if there’s any chance of being fired on.”

  “Something in what he says,” the driver said. “If the Jerries are there, we mightn’t find another roundabout this time.”

  They discussed it for a minute or two. There was no road alternative to going through the town that did not mean a ten-mile journey back towards Montargis. “An’ that’s not so bloody funny, either,” said the corporal. “Meet the Jerries coming up behind us, like as not.”

  He hesitated, irresolute. “Okay,” he said at last. “Nip in and have a look, mate. Give us the wire if it’s all okey-doke. Wave something if it’s all right to come on.”

  The old man said, “I’ll have to take the children with me.”

  “My muckin’ Christ. I don’t want to sit here all the bloody day, mate.”

  The old man said, “I’m not going to be separated from the children.” He paused. “You see, they’re in my charge. Just like your lathe.”

  The driver burst out laughing. “That’s a good one, corp! Just like your muckin’ lathe, he said.”

  The corporal said, “Well, put a jerk in it, anyway.”

  The old man got down from the lorry and lifted the children one by one down into the hot sunlight on the dusty, deserted road. He started off with them down the road towards the town, leading the two little ones by the hand, thinking uneasily that if he were to become separated from the lorry he would inevitably lose his perambulator. He made all speed possible, but it was twenty minutes before he led them into the town.

  There were no Germans to be seen. The town was virtually deserted; only one or two very old women peered at him from behind curtains or around the half-closed doors of shops. In the gutter of the road that led towards the north a tattered, dirty child that might have been of either sex in its short smock, was chewing something horrible. A few yards up the road a dead horse had been dragged half up on to the pavement and left there, distended and stinking. A dog was tearing at it.

  It was a beastly, sordid little town, the old man felt. He caught one of the old women at a door. “Are the Germans here?” he said.

  “They are coming from the north,” she quavered. “They will ravish every one, and shoot us.”

  The old man felt instinctively that this was nonsense. “Have you seen any Germans in the town yet?”

  “There is one there.”

  He looked round, startled. “Where?”

  “There.” She pointed a trembling, withered hand at the child in the gutter.

  “There?” The woman must be mad, distraught with terror of the invaders.

  “It speaks only German. It is the child of spies.” She caught his arm with senile urgency. “Throw a stone and chase it away. It will bring the Germans to this house if it stays there.”

  Howard shook her off. “Are any German soldiers here yet?”

  She did not answer, but shouted a shrill scream of dirty imprecations at the child in the gutter. The child, a little boy, Howard thought, lifted his head and looked at her with infantile disdain. Then he resumed his disgusting meal.

  There was nothing more to be learned from the old hag; it was now clear to him there were no Germans in the town. He turned away; as he did so there was a sharp crack, and a fair-sized stone rolled down the pavement near the German spy. The child slunk off fifty yards down the street, and squatted down again upon the kerb.

  The old man was very angry, but he had other things to do. He said to Rose, “Look after the children for a minute, Rose. Don’t let them go away, or speak to any one.”

  He hurried back along the road that they had entered the town by. He had to go a couple of hundred yards before he came in sight of the lorry, parked by the roadside half a mile away. He waved his hat at it, and saw it move towards him; then he turned, and walked back to where he had left the children.

  It overtook him near the cross roads in the middle of the town. The corporal leaned down from the cab. “Any juice here, do you think?” The old man looked at him, uncomprehending. “Petrol, mate.”

  “Oh — I don’t know. I wouldn’t hang about here very long.”

  “That’s right,” the driver muttered. “Let’s get on out of it. It don’t look so good to me.”

  “We got to get juice.”

  “We got close on five gallons left. Get us to Angerville.”

  “Okay.” The corporal said to Howard, “Get the kids into the back and we’ll ‘op it.”

  Howard looked round for his children. They were not where he had left them; he looked round, and they were up the road with the German spy, who was crying miserably.

  “Rose,” he shouted. “Come on. Bring the children.”

  She called in a thin, piping voice, “Il est blessé.”

  “Come on,” he cried. The children looked at him but did not stir. He hurried over to them. “Why don’t you come when I call you?”

  Rose faced the old man, her little face crimson with anger. “Somebody threw a stone at him and hit him. I saw them do it. It is not right, that.”

  True enough, a sticky stream of blood was running down the back of the child’s neck into his filthy clothes. A sudden loathing for the town enveloped the old man. He took his handkerchief and mopped at the wound.

  La petite Rose said, “It is not right to throw a stone at him, and a big woman, too, m’sieur. This is a bad, dirty place to do a thing like that.”

  Ronnie said, “He’s coming with us, Mr. Howard. He can sit on the other end of Bert’s kitbag by the ‘lectric motor.”

  The old man said, “He belongs here. We can’t take him away with us.” But in his mind came the thought that it might be kind to do so.

  “He doesn’t belong here,” said Rose. “Two days only he has been here. The woman said so.”

  There was a hurried, heavy step behind them. “For Christ’s sake,” said the corporal.

  Howard turned to him. “They’re throwing stones at this child,” he said. He showed the man the cut upon his neck.

  “Who’s throwing stones?”

  “All the people in the village. They think he’s a German spy.”

  “Who— ’im?” The corporal stared. “He ain’t more’n seven years old!”

  “I saw the woman do it,” said Ronnie. “That house there. She threw a stone, and did that.”

  “My muckin’ aunt,” the corporal said. He turned to Howard. “Anyway, we got to beat it.”

  “I know.” The old man hesitated. “What’ll we do? Leave him here in this disgusting place? Or bring him along with us?”

  “Bring him along, mate, if you feel like it. I ain’t worried over the amount of spying that he’ll do.”

  The old man bent and spoke to the child. “Would you like to come with us?” he said in French.

  The little boy said something in another language.

  Howard said, “Sprechen Sie deutsch?” That was the limit of the German that he could recall at the moment, but it drew no response.

  He straightened up, heavy with new responsibility. “We’ll take him with us,” he said quietly. “If we leave him here they’ll probably end by killing him.”

  “If we don’t get a move on,” said the corporal, “the bloody Jerries will be here and kill the lot of us.”

  Howard picked up the spy, who suffered that in silence; they hurried to the lorry. The child smelt and was plainly verminous; the old man turned his face away in nausea. Perhaps in Angerville there would be nuns who would take charge of him. They might take Pierre, too, though Pierre was so little bother that the old man didn’t mind about him much.

  They put the children in the workshop; Howard got in with them and the corporal got into the front seat by the driver. The big truck moved across the road from Paris and out upon the road to Angerville, seventeen miles away.


  “If we don’t get some juice in Angerville,” the driver said, “we’ll be bloody well sunk.”

  In the van, crouched down beside the lathe with the children huddled round him, the old man pulled out a sticky bundle of his chocolate. He broke off five pieces for the children; as soon as the German spy realized what it was he stretched out a filthy paw and said something unintelligible. He ate it greedily, and stretched out his hand for more.

  “You wait a bit.” The old man gave the chocolate to the other children. Pierre whispered, “Merci, monsieur.”

  La petite Rose leaned down to him. “After supper, Pierre?” she said. “Shall monsieur keep it for you to have after supper?”

  The little boy whispered, “Only on Sunday. On Sunday I may have chocolate after supper. Is to-day Sunday?”

  The old man said, “I’m not quite sure what day it is. But I don’t think your mother will mind if you have chocolate after supper to-night. I’ll put it away and you can have it then.”

  He rummaged round and produced one of the thick, hard biscuits that he had brought in the morning, and with some difficulty broke it in two; he offered one half to the dirty little boy in the smock. The child took it and ate it ravenously.

  Rose scolded at him in French, “Is that the way to eat? A little pig would eat more delicately — yes, truly, I say — a little pig. You should thank Monsieur, too.”

  The child stared at her, not understanding why she was scolding him.

  She said, “Have you not been taught how to behave? You should say like this—” she swung round and bowed to Howard— “je vous remercie, monsieur.”

  Her words passed him by, but the pantomime was evident. He looked confused. “Dank, mijnheer,” he said awkwardly. “Dank u wel.”

  Howard stared at him, perplexed. It was a northern language, but not German. It might, he thought, be Flemish or Walloon, or even Dutch. In any case it mattered very little; he himself knew no word of any of those languages.

  They drove on at a good pace through the hot afternoon. The hatch to the driver’s compartment was open; from time to time the old man leaned forward and looked through between the two men at the road ahead of them. It was suspiciously clear. They passed only a very few refugees, and very occasionally a farm cart going on its ordinary business. There were no soldiers to be seen, and of the seething refugee traffic between Joigny and Montargis there was no sign at all. The whole countryside seemed empty, dead.

  Three miles from Angerville the corporal turned and spoke to Howard through the hatch. “Getting near that next town now,” he said. “We got to get some juice there, or we’re done.”

  The old man said, “If you see any one likely on the road I’ll ask them where the depot is.”

  “Okay.”

  In a few minutes they came to a farm. A car stood outside it, and a man was carrying sacks of grain or fodder from the car into the farm. “Stop here,” the old man said, “I’ll ask that chap.”

  They drew up by the roadside, immediately switching off the engine to save petrol. “Only about a gallon left now,” said the driver. “We run it bloody fine, an’ no mistake.”

  Howard got down and walked back to the farm. The man, a grey-beard of about fifty without a collar, came out towards the car. “We want petrol,” said Howard. “There is, without doubt, a depot for military transport in Angerville?”

  The man stared at him. “There are Germans in Angerville.”

  There was a momentary silence. The old Englishman stared across the farmyard, at the lean pig rooting on the midden, at the scraggy fowls scratching in the dust. So it was closing in on him.

  “How long have they been there?” he asked quietly.

  “Since early morning. They have come from the north.”

  There was no more to be said about that. “Have you petrol? I will buy any that you have, at your own price.”

  The peasant’s eyes glowed. “A hundred francs a litre.”

  “How much have you got?”

  The man looked at the gauge upon the battered dashboard of his car. “Seven litres. Seven hundred francs.”

  Less than a gallon and a half of petrol would not take the ten-ton Leyland very far. Howard went back to the corporal.

  “Not very good news, I’m afraid,” he said. “The Germans are in Angerville.”

  There was a pause. “Bloody ‘ell,” the corporal said at last. He said it very quietly, as if he were suddenly tired. “How many are there there?”

  Howard called back the enquiry to the peasant. “A regiment,” he said. “I suppose he means about a thousand men.”

  “Come down from the north, like,” said the driver.

  There was nothing much more to be said. The old man told them about the petrol. “That’s not much good,” the corporal said. “With what we’ve got, that wouldn’t take us more’n ten miles.” He turned to the driver. “Let’s ‘ave the muckin’ map.”

  Together they pored over the sheet; the old man got up into the cab and studied it with them. There was no side road between them and the town; behind them there was no road leading to the south for nearly seven miles. “That’s right,” the driver said. “I didn’t see no road on that side when we came along.”

  The corporal said quietly, “An’ if we did go back, we’d meet the Jerries coming along after us, from that other muckin’ place. Where he picked up the nipper what they told him was a spy.”

  “That’s right,” the driver said.

  The corporal said, “Got a fag?”

  The driver produced a cigarette; the corporal lit it and blew a long cloud. “Well,” he said presently, “this puts the lid on it.”

  The other two were silent.

  “I wanted to get home with that big Herbert,” the corporal said. “I wanted to get that through okay, as much as I ever wanted anything in all my life.” He turned to Howard. “Straight, I did. But I ain’t going to.”

  The old man said gently, “I am very sorry.”

  The other shook himself. “You can’t always do them things you want to most.” He stirred. “Well, this won’t buy baby a new frock.”

  He got down from the cab on to the ground. “What are you going to do?” asked Howard.

  “I’ll show you what I’m going to do.” He led the old man to the side of the great lorry, about half way down its length. There was a little handle sticking out through the side chassis member, painted bright red. “I’m going to pull that tit, and run like bloody ‘ell.”

  “Demolition,” said the driver at his elbow. “Pull that out, an’ up she goes.”

  The corporal said, “Come on, now. Get them muckin’ kids out of the back. I’m sorry we can’t take you any further, mate, but that’s the way it is.”

  Howard said, “What will you do, yourselves?”

  The corporal said, “Mugger off cross country to the south, an’ hope to keep in front of the Jerries.” He hesitated. “You’ll be all right,” he said, a little awkwardly. “They won’t do nothin’ to you, with all them kids.”

  The old man said, “We’ll be all right. Don’t worry about us. You’ve got to get back home, to fight again.”

  “We got to dodge the muckin’ Jerries, first.”

  Together they got the children down on to the road; then they lifted down the pram from the top of the van. Howard collected his few possessions and stowed them in the pram, took the corporal’s address in England, and gave his own.

  There was nothing then to wait for.

  “So long, mate,” said the corporal. “See you one day.”

  The old man said, “So long.”

  He gathered the children round him, and set off with them slowly down the road in the direction of Angerville. There was a minor squabble as to who should push the pram, which finished up by Sheila pushing it with Ronnie to assist and advise. Rose walked beside them leading Pierre by the hand; the dirty little stranger in his queer frock followed along behind. Howard thought ruefully that somehow, somewhere, he must get
him washed. Not only was he verminous and filthy, but the back of his neck and his clothes were clotted with dried blood from the cut.

  They went slowly, as they always did. From time to time Howard glanced back over his shoulder; the men by the lorry seemed to be sorting out their personal belongings. Then one of them, the driver, started off across the field towards the south, carrying a small bundle. The other bent to some task at the lorry.

  Then he was up, and running from the road towards the driver. He ran clumsily, stumbling; when he had gone about two hundred yards there was a sharp, crackling explosion.

  A sheet of flame shot outwards from the lorry. Parts of it sailed up into the air and fell upon the road and into the fields; then it sunk lower on the road. A little tongue of fire appeared, and it was in flames.

  Ronnie said, “Coo, Mr. Howard. Did it blow up?”

  Sheila echoed, “Did it blow up itself, Mr. Howard?”

  “Yes,” he said heavily, “that’s what happened.” A column of thick black smoke rose from it on the road. He turned away. “Don’t bother about it any more.”

  Two miles ahead of him he saw the roofs of Angerville. The net was practically closed upon him now. With a heavy heart he led the children down the road towards the town.

  6

  I BROKE INTO his story and said, a little breathlessly, “This one’s not far off.”

  We sat tense in our chairs before the fire, listening to the rising whine of the bomb. It burst somewhere very near, and in the rumble of the falling debris we heard another falling, closer still. We sat absolutely motionless as the club rocked to the explosion and the glass crashed from the windows, and the whine of the third bomb grew shrill. It burst upon the other side of us.

  “Straddled,” said old Howard, breaking the tension. “That’s all right.”

  The fourth bomb of the stick fell further away; then there was a pause and a burst of machine gunfire. I got up from my chair and walked out to the corridor. It was in darkness. A window leading out on to a little balcony had been blown open. I went out, and looked round.

  Over towards the city the sky was a deep, cherry red with the glow of the fires. Around us there was a bright, yellow light from three parachute flares suspended in the sky; Bren guns and Lewis guns were rattling away at these things in an attempt to shoot them down. Close at hand, down the street, another fire was getting under way.