Колин Форбс - Tramp in Armour

At the time they were travelling at reduced speed on his instructions because they were approaching a hump-backed bridge. The character of the countryside had changed again and now there were low hills close to the road. Even from the elevated vantage point of the turret he found it impossible to see the stretch of road immediately beyond the bridge, so as they drove forward his gaze was fixed on the crest which was still a hundred yards away. Instinctively, he didn’t like the look of the bridge. He began to give precautionary orders, just in case.

‘Two-pounder. One hundred. The bridge ahead.’

Below him, Penn’s head was pressed hard against a padded bracket, his eye peering steadily through the telescope at the small circle of countryside which centred on the bridge crest. The two-pounder’s leather-bound grip was fixed tightly round his shoulder, under his armpit, so that only the slightest movement of that shoulder automatically raised or depressed the muzzle of the gun. His left hand gripped the power-traverse lever while the other hand gripped the trigger handle. Now the cross-wires inside the glass circle were aligned dead centre on the bridge crest. The range was set, he was ready, and all this had taken only a few seconds.

Barnes had hardly completed giving the orders, Penn had just completed obeying them, when it happened. Straight over the crest of the hump-back, travelling at high speed, recklessly high speed, hurtled a large covered truck. Barnes registered its identity in a flash – even to the soldier peering round from the back, leaning well out, a pudding-shaped helmet set squarely on his head. A German detachment of motorized infantry.

‘German truck! Fire!’

The barrel dropped slightly, because now the truck was over the hump, still tearing towards them. Knowing what to expect, Barnes gripped the turret rim. The tank shuddered under the stomach-jerking spasm of the recoil, the shell screamed forward, its target rushing to meet it. The two missiles met in frightful collision, the shell smashing into the truck just above engine level, exploding with a roar, ripping apart metal, canvas, flesh. Inside the turret the air reeked of cordite fumes as Barnes, who was now behind the gun, re-loaded, flipping in a fresh round with a certain force to make the breech-block close. Then he scrambled back to the top of the turret, the tank still trundling towards its target. In the nose of the vehicle Reynolds stared at the truck with grim satisfaction. God, that had been a close one!

The truck was pulverized, but the force of explosion plays strange tricks and this explosion had hurled from the open back several German soldiers still clasping their machine-pistols, throwing them out on to the grass verge where they lay stunned for a second. But when Barnes looked out from his turret they were recovering, jumping up off the grass, the reflex of fear speeding their movements as they darted into the field, spreading out the target. In a matter of seconds, if they were well trained, they would be circling round the tank. Barnes gave instant orders.

‘Driver, right, off the road, right. Besa. Besa. Right. Well right. Fire!’

Penn’s trigger hand jumped to the Besa. Reynolds swerved off the road, through a low wire fence, over the grass, heading straight for the running men. The Besa began to stutter, a hail of bullets catching the man on the right-most flank, catching him in mid-stride, in mid-air as he began to flop, his body hiccupping convulsively, the machine-pistol falling from his grip.

‘Besa. Traverse left, left…’

Coolly, without panic, Penn’s mind and hand paralleled Barnes’ intentions and the turret began to swing, taking the flail of bullets with it. Get the one on the far right first, then sweep left against the forward movement of the running men, catching all five men as they desperately tried to spread, depressing the Besa to sweep it at ground level over those who had dropped to the grass. In half a minute it was all over and Barnes gave the order to take the tank back on to the road.

The smashed truck sagged grotesquely to one side, still on its wheels but keeled over at a crippled angle, flames licking over the bonnet, the torn canvas at the back catching alight. Then the petrol tank went up, a dull thump. Flames soared up and the canvas flared, burning rapidly, exposing the metal framework. Halting the tank, Barnes waited until the conflagration had died down, his eyes’ scanning the summer sky constantly for aircraft, but it was empty of any sign of war. Only on the ground death disfigured the gloriously sunny day. As soon as the flames began to peter out Barnes gave the order to move the tank forward. The shelled truck now blocked the way, the wreckage standing in the middle of the road. Carefully he guided the tank along the grass verge, turning it so that the front hull faced the truck broadside on.

‘Driver, move forward slowly and tip it over the edge.’ The tank crawled forward, its tracks bumping the side of the truck. Foot by foot, it thrust the truck backwards towards the slope at the end of the bridge, a slope which Barnes now saw led down to the canal. From the turret he could see over the hump of the bridge and the road beyond was clear for miles. He could also see on the floor of the cab and inside the truck itself a huddle of clothes which bore little resemblance to uniformed soldiers. The truck was almost on the brink now, pushed backwards by the tank which was manoeuvring the vehicle like a bulldozer shifting waste material. As the truck began to topple a helmeted figure scrambled out from under the bodies, dropping to the roadway and swinging his machine-pistol round in one movement. God knew how he had managed to survive the holocaust but now he survived only seconds. As the machine-pistol came round Barnes fired his revolver at the same moment as the Besa began to stutter. The German fell back over the edge a few seconds before the truck toppled, crashing down the slope on top of him with a jarring grind of crumpling metal as the vehicle landed on the edge of the canal, settling like a crushed concertina. There was an unpleasant smell of burnt rubber as Barnes gave the orders to reverse, drive forward over the bridge, and halt on the far side. Then he clambered down into the road and went back over the bridge.

He saw Pierre in the distance, climbing up out of the ditch where he had jumped as soon as the truck appeared. Now he walked slowly along the road as Barnes scrambled down the slope to investigate the carnage. It was like a miniature battlefield. In its fall down the slope, the truck had thrown out its grisly load, scattering bodies along the canal bank. One man lay half in the canal, face downwards. The smashed and twisted bodies were all dead, all except one^ Grimly, Barnes walked over to the moaning man, the moans reminding him of an animal in mortal pain. Both his legs had been blown off and he lay on his stomach, the lower part of his body a bloodstained stump. He had lost his helmet and appeared to be biting the ground. It was quite clear that in a short time, half an hour at the most, he would be dead, but during that half an hour he was a creature who would be racked by unendurable agonies. Christ, thought Barnes, why didn’t you have the sense to die too? He clenched his teeth bitterly. You poor bastard. He mouthed the words silently for fear that the man might hear him, might even manage to turn his head. Leaning down, unaware that his teeth were locked rigid, he held the muzzle of the revolver within an inch of the man’s head and before he could think about it he pulled the trigger. The German gave a quick convulsive movement and lay still. Barnes let out his breath. As he straightened up he sensed that he was not alone and he turned round. Over the parapet of the bridge two faces stared down. Penn and Pierre.