Колин Форбс - Tramp in Armour

‘Keep it up, Penn. You’re a bloody marvel.’

Hearing Barnes’ voice made him feel better: it counteracted the dreadful feeling of being mercilessly exposed to the enemy. And it can’t be all that much fun down there, he thought. It’s probably even worse not being able to see what’s going on. He began counting again. Half an hour later, as though his nerves had not already been shredded, battered to a jelly, and then shredded again,’ fate decided to turn the screw tighter, to take him to breaking-point and then beyond to a region of terrified desperation he could never have dreamt existed, and the trial came without warning.

The truck approached the bridge like its predecessors, the headlights catching him briefly in the face. It rode up over the slope and passed him, first the cab with the officer and then the open back with its huddle of staring faces. As it started to turn the corner it back-fired explosively again and again. The vehicle slowed down, its engine coughing and spluttering unpleasantly although it still took the truck forward. Penn could hear the driver fighting to keep the engine going and for a few seconds it throbbed perfectly. Then the awful coughing started again and the truck turned off the road, its headlights beamed directly on the copse. Driving forward a few yards farther into the field it stopped.

In a daze of horror Penn watched men jumped down from the back and begin to walk about the field. An officer and a soldier, undoubtedly the driver, had the bonnet up and they were peering inside at the engine. The sentry Barnes killed, Penn thought grimly, must have some chums in this division and they could be outside that truck. How long would it be before a soldier came over to him? Even in the face of this new nightmare Penn realized what was happening as the next tank came over the bridge. Every vehicle must have the same instructions – in the event of a possible breakdown they had to get off the road at all cost. Whatever happened they mustn’t impede the movement of the Panzers. And this lot could quite easily still be here by daylight.

‘Penn!’ Barnes hissed the name from behind the parapet. ‘I know what’s happened. Just keep still. They may get that truck moving in a minute…’

He broke off as another tank crossed the bridge, pressing himself flat against the wall so that it was impossible for the commander in the turret to spot him.

‘Penn, I’m right behind you with one of their own machine-pistols if the balloon goes up. Don’t move – just…’

The rest of his words were lost as another tank clattered by, but knowing that Barnes was waiting behind the wall gave Perm’s morale a desperately needed boost. He gripped the machine-pistol tighter. If this was it, well this was it and there was nothing he could do except to keep up the masquerade to the bitter end. Several of the men from the truck were moving closer to the road and the officer and the driver were still bent double over the engine. If they didn’t get it started pretty soon some of the waiting troops were going to cross the road to come and have a chat with him. He saw one soldier start to cross, then headlights flared and a truck swept over the bridge too quickly, pulling up at the corner with a squeal of brakes; gunning the engine as it navigated the corner. The soldier had stepped back on to the grass and stood there hesitantly. Something had to give soon.

Barnes had left the wall behind Penn and now he was scrambling up the southern bank, the bank nearest to the oncoming column. His hands were torn to pieces, covered in congealed blood from earlier struggles with the brambles, the congealed blood in its turn covered with a film of fresh blood so that both palms were sticky with gore and damp with sweat. He reached the top and fell flat as another vehicle arrived, waiting until it had passed before he parted the branches of a shrub, sucking in breath quickly at what he saw. They were almost too late. He scrambled down the bank again, picked up his machine-pistol from the path, plunged into the river, and climbed the other side. He waited until the next tank had crossed and then spoke rapidly.

‘Penn, only four more vehicles to come – and the last two are probably motor-cycles.’

‘I think that truck in the field is leaving…’

‘I know, I heard them starting the engine. Now listen. You let two more vehicles pass and then you get down here like a bat out of hell when I tell you.’

‘But the truck in the field…’

‘Shut up!’

It was going to be a damned close thing, Barnes knew that. He was peering round the end of the bridge where he could watch the truck. Soldiers were climbing into the back and the officer and the driver were inside the front cab. The last patrol at the rear of the column would be stopping on the bridge to collect Penn and they would have to deal with that patrol, but everything depended on the truckload of soldiers in the field driving away in time so that they had the bridge to themselves, and Barnes realized that the timing was going to be split-second. All the troops were aboard now, the tail-board had been pulled up. The truck started to turn in a half-circle. Another vehicle went over the bridge, an armoured car. One more to come. The truck was driving forward towards the road, bumping across the uneven field at a painfully slow pace. Would it slip on to the road before the next vehicle drove past, the last one before the patrols arrived? He gripped his machine-pistol firmly, his mind on edge for the lightning decision he would have to take within the next sixty seconds. The truck reached the edge of the road and paused to make sure that the way was clear. Barnes watched it grimly – that truck was the real enemy, the enemy which could mean the difference between life and death for his unit. It seemed reluctant to depart, almost as though the driver sensed that there was some unfinished business to attend to here. A thought flashed into his head and he hoped to heaven they were not about to die by mischance – the mischance that the officer in the cab would decide to collect the sentry himself. Then the truck turned on to the road and drove off as an armoured car came over the bridge, skidded round the corner, and followed the truck along the road to Fontaine. Barnes jumped up.

Term! Now!’

He grabbed Penn’s arm as he came round the end of the bridge and hustled him along the bank.

‘Down behind these bushes. Whatever happens, don’t open fire unless you’ve got to. The first patrol will probably drive on, leaving the last one to pick you up. If the first one does stop we’ll have to wipe them out and then deal with the second one.’

‘They’re bound to search for…’

‘Not necessarily – they may think you were picked up by one of the last trucks when they can’t find you. I’ll be over on the other side.’

Barnes ran back flat-footed to avoid tripping. He crossed the road in a sprint, ran farther along the bank and dropped down behind some bushes twenty yards back from the road. From this position he commanded the northern side of the bridge and the road beyond. With Penn facing him they would have the patrols in a crossfire, although he hoped that it wouldn’t come to that because the tail-end of the Panzer column wasn’t far enough away yet. Let them be tired, he prayed, too tired to start poking around under the bridge. Then he saw lights and the first motor-cycle and side-car arrived.

It came over the bridge at speed, braking with a snarl of exhaust, screaming round the corner explosively, then it was gone. It happened so quickly that it almost took Barnes’ breath away. Now they were only faced with the last patrol, the one which was bound to stop to pick up the sentry. He pressed himself closer to the earth, the machine-pistol stretched out in front of him, also flat on the ground to avoid any danger of light reflecting off it. He could hear the machine coming now, coming flat out as though anxious to collect the sentry and catch up the column. An impatient type. That might just help – someone who didn’t like to spend too much tune hanging around lonely bridges in the middle of the night. Through the bushes he could see the light now, blurred by the tiny branches and leaves of the bushes, a light which rushed towards the bridge. His leg muscles tensed, his hands grasped the pistol. The roar of the motor-cycle was almost on top of them, the light showing on the parapet. Then it arrived, crossed the bridge, swerved, skidded madly on the corner, recovered its balance, and raced off up the road after the column.