Jack Ludlow - A Bitter Field

‘They should stop and have a gander,’ he said, once Peter had joined him. ‘Then, if they are still up for it, come forward on foot, thinking we are using the lorry as cover, by which time the barge should be well on its way.’

‘Are they armed?’

‘Heavily and openly.’

The answer made Peter glum. ‘So they show no fear of the authorities, then?’

‘Apparently not.’

It seemed pointless to add it was still lunchtime in rural France, so the chance of a passing gendarme was zero. Besides, if this crew were so open in their weapon-carrying, it had to be because they felt utterly safe from interference by the forces of the law, evidenced by their openness in identifying themselves on the phone, and it could be worse — Cal felt they had to work on the assumption of official collusion, not indifference.

‘There’s no cavalry coming over the hill, Peter, we are on our own, and before you ask me how far I am prepared to go, let me remind you they are likely to be killers.’

‘I got that impression myself, Cal,’ Peter replied, hauling on the Mauser to cock it with a loud click. ‘But then, old chum, so are we if forced into it.’

It was not a long wait, but agonising nevertheless, trying to work out what they would do, with the notion of them firing on the passing barge a worry. Before him the surface of the pave road, reacting to the post-midday heat of the sun on the surface, gave the impression of being distorted, a mirage in fact, and he quickly realised it presented a problem: that wide and dark liquid streak on the road was fading too fast with evaporation.

The barge being invisible he had to duck through the screen of trees to locate its position, then relate that to the blocking lorry, relieved to see it seemed to be past the point of any danger, just chugging along undisturbed and unremarked upon, being such a common sight.

‘Peter, a match.’

Peter passed over his box of red-tipped Swan Vesta, which Cal slid open to the maximum he could achieve without the whole contents tumbling out, taking out four and holding them together. Lit simultaneously on the sandpaper to create a good flame, he then ignited the rest in the open box.

When that flared up he knelt and threw the whole thing into the long streak of stinking, rapidly evaporating petrol that had been pumped out as the lorry progressed from the farmyard to its blocking position, jumping back as the fuel flared up with a whoosh that, had he not moved quickly, would have cost him his eyebrows as well as the front of his hair.

The blue flame snaked towards the lorry tailgate at some speed until it reached the bale of hay that lay below the dropped tailgate and that, soaked with petrol by his French helpers before being thrown off, went up like a Roman candle firework, the fire licking around the drenched planked floor until that too was alight, rising to surround the large half-empty drum.

They watched as heat did the rest and in short order the drum went up with a thudding boom, sending streaks of burning fuel in all directions, especially into the ditch, and setting fire to the canvas covering of the body as well as the cab. Cal had taken up a position on the canal side of the road, close to the treeline, lying behind the ZB26 on its bipod and squinting through the sights, waiting for what he was sure must come.

With the road blocked the Jeunesses Patriotes could not use their cars and with that furiously burning lorry they could not use the canal side or the ditch either; they would have to take to the open fields to the south, in this case one of ripening wheat. The first sign of movement was, as Cal expected, tentative and cautious, maybe one or two at most moving in a wide arc.

As soon as he saw their warped shapes through the smoke, flames and air distortion he put a single shot as close over their heads as he dare, on the grounds that you don’t have to kill a man to make him take cover, the crack of a passing bullet will do the trick just as well.

Peter had taken up a position behind one of the trees that lined the canal to block that route, and he would do the same to anyone who showed themselves — less of a possibility given the flaring fuel had already set light to the lower branches of the tree against which the lorry was resting and was beginning to blacken the whole trunk.

The flames were licking outwards on the slight breeze and a column of black smoke now rose into the sky, one that would be visible for miles and might attract the kind of attention that would force the opposition to abandon their aim. As if to underline that, there was a second huge boom as the fuel tank of the lorry went up.

The next act was to let the enemy know what they would face if they tried to break out into that open field. With deliberate aim he emptied the magazine in one burst covering the immediate area by which they would need to advance, which set into the air the heads of corn at the top of the stalks. The message was plain: that was not a safe way to go.

What followed was a surprise that had him rolling sideways at speed to get behind a tree, trailing his weapon behind him. The two flying grenades emerged from those flames and black pall of smoke to land on the road and bounce forward with a rattling sound, coming to a halt halfway between him and the conflagration before they exploded, sending bits of shrapnel thudding into the tree trunks and sending a blast of air past Cal Jardine’s ear.

‘Peter?’ he yelled as the sound and blast dissipated.

‘I’m good.’

Cal rolled back out onto the road and ramming down the bipod he jammed home and emptied another magazine. This time there was no chance to take careful aim, though as yet reluctant to kill he fired too high to hit anyone, still hoping the sound of passing shot would make them hesitate and take cover.

Peter Lanchester, falling back from tree to tree, was close to him now and able to say that, with the flames licking the canal bank, there was little chance of any attack from that quarter unless they were prepared to swim. Cal shouted back, asking him to keep going backwards, to get to the farmhouse and order that second lorry on its way.

The words were barely out of his mouth when bits of tree began to fly, chips blasted off by sustained and accurate rifle fire of an intensity that would make it dangerous for Peter to move into the open.

This was not suppression fire, it was meant to kill, so it was time to take off the gloves. The next burst of fire Cal put into the edge of the wheat field sliced low through the stalks, and as soon as he had emptied the mag he slotted another one home, calling to Peter to move when he fired.

‘How’s your ammo?’ Peter yelled.

‘One in the slot and two mags spare, one I need for my own move back.’

‘Any more available?’

‘There’s a bargeful on the way to the docks.’

‘Time I entered the fray, old boy.’

‘Right,’ Cal replied, smiling at the studied unflappability, which was Peter’s trademark act and it was a performance; having seen him in action he knew him to be a very effective fighter.

Half emerging from behind his tree Peter held the Mauser forward in both hands, spreading his feet to fire, which he did rapidly, inching left as he did so, then scooting away at a crouch as soon as he heard the click of the empty chamber.

He threw himself to the ground and rolled off the road as fire was returned. Covered by the ditch he slotted home the spare mag before crawling back towards the buildings, this while Cal put single shots into the field.

He stopped because the return fire had ceased, which did not indicate to him that the Jeunesses Patriotes would be giving up the fight, more that they were trying to figure out some new manoeuvre to circumvent that burning lorry and the light machine gun fire. Thankfully those two grenades seemed to constitute their entire stock; there had been no repeat.