Колин Форбс - Tramp in Armour

‘They must have pinched the bus from a depot, so they pinched plenty of spare fuel to go with it.’

‘You can load up Bert now, but get a move on.’ While Reynolds was carrying the cans back to the tank Barnes made a further search of the bus and when his fingers pressed through a coverlet he felt bottles underneath. At least not only Bert would have plenty to drink. Ripping away the coverlet he found a dozen bottles of mineral water: clearly, Mr Lebrun liked to dilute his wine. And underneath the last two mineral waters he found the jackpot – a half-bottle of Five Star Bisquit cognac.

He carried his own treasures back to the tank and the four men were still lying sprawled in the blazing sun while Penn mounted guard over them from the turret. Reynolds was humming to himself as he fussed about the tank, lifting back the engine cover, removing the cap and inserting the large tin funnel which he used to fill up with diesel. As he poured in the precious liquid he was taking as much pleasure over the operation as if he were enjoying a five-course dinner himself. They had almost completed the loading operation when Lebrun couldn’t stand it any longer. Lifting his head cautiously, his face streaming with greasy sweat, he spoke over his shoulder, his tone of voice petulant. ‘Please, sir…’ ‘What is it, Lebrun?’

‘Please leave us two or three of the containers for the bus.’ ‘Too late – we’ve poured it all in the tank.’ Lebrun glared savagely and Barnes was startled by the look of bitter hatred in the squat man’s eyes. He had his mouth open and between the thick lips several misshapen gold teeth showed. Barnes told him to get his head down, took a heavy wrench from the tool kit and went back to wreck the bus’ engine. He smashed the motor systematically, putting it completely out of action. Lebrun wouldn’t be using this bus again to plunder his own people and now there was no risk of the looters driving out of Beaucaire ahead of them to warn that German tank of Bert’s existence. When he returned to the tank Lebrun was settling his face back on the ground as Perm swore at him.

‘He’s a sensitive soul,’ Penn explained. ‘The noise you were making was getting on his nerves.’

‘I wish you’d told me that – I’d have wrapped a cloth round the wrench.’ Barnes’ voice hardened. ‘Lebrun, get on your feet. The others can get up, too.’

Lebrun said something quickly in French and rose slowly to his feet, facing Barnes alongside bis companions, an expression of the utmost venom on his face. He’s an ugly customer, this one, thought Barnes, but he can’t do much without his Lugers. He spoke abruptly.

‘You can all push off now – that way, to the east. If we see any of you again we’ll shoot.’

‘The Germans come from the east…’ began Lebrun.

‘That’s right. I doubt if they’ll like you any better than we do. Get moving.’

They followed the four men down the road in the tank and then halted after they had turned on to the highway which led westward. Amid the sunlit ruins they ate a quick meal and quenched their thirst with mineral water while Barnes pointed out their position on the map and outlined what the Corsican had told him. The news almost spoilt Perm’s appetite.

‘The Germans in Abbeville!’ The corporal looked stunned. ‘You don’t believe that, do you?’

‘With these Panzers roaming all over the place I’m not sure what to believe. I just hope he’s wrong, that’s all.’

‘We’re heading for Cambrai first, then?’

‘It’s in the right direction, if there is such a thing.’

They talked about the problem – a single tank roaming behind the enemy lines, unaware of its position, because they couldn’t be absolutely sure that this was Beaucaire, the Germans unaware of its presence – and then Barnes said it was time to move, but at the last moment he jumped down to the ground again. ‘What’s up?’ inquired Penn, leaning out of the turret.

‘I’m going back to the bus – I forget to look in the tool box at the back and there may be something useful in it.’

He left Penn standing in the turret, hurried back up the road, and turned the corner out of sight of the tank, the machine-pistol under his arm. As he reached the bus he glanced down at the pile of loot which Reynolds had thrown out and wondered why it looked different. Dismissing the thought as imagination, he boarded the bus and made his way to the back. All the windows were closed and it was appallingly hot and airless and there was a smell of wine. His foot kicked an empty bottle which rolled under a seat and he stiffened: the bottle hadn’t been there when he left the bus. Inside the tool box he found a large wrench which he put in his pocket, still trying to work out how the bottle had appeared. He was leaving the bus when his glance fell again on the pile of loot strewn across the ground and a warning signal flashed in his brain. The rifle had gone.

A sense of foreboding gripped him as he ran back towards the corner. Why take an old hunting rifle? Lebrun must have doubled back round the ruins while they were eating, must have found a bottle of wine, drunk it and made off with the weapon. He was midway to the corner when he heard the sound of a single report, one sharp crack, then an awful silence. He reached the corner and at first sight nothing appeared to be wrong: the tank was where he had left it and Penn was still in the turret, but as he ran closer Reynolds scrambled clear of the hatch and stood on the hull close to Penn who was no longer standing erect. When he reached them he saw that the driver was holding Penn up, his right hand sticky with blood. Penn spoke hoarsely, his face ashen.

‘Blighter got me in the shoulder… Lebrun… watch it -he’s behind that building…’

‘Take it easy…’

Reynolds spoke quickly. ‘It’s all right, I can see to him.’

Barnes ran across the rubble towards the stunted house from where he had first seen Lebrun and his gang, ran crouched low, bis eyes everywhere, the machine-pistol held forward in front of his stomach, his mind calculating and murderous. The house came closer and he watched both corners, watched a window which faced his approach, the only three points from which Lebrun could take him by surprise. As he ran he cursed himself for overlooking that rifle, but who would dream of checking an ancient weapon like that? Some idiot must have kept the damned thing loaded in his house and Lebrun had pinched it because of the silver-plated stock. He reached the house, crept round the outer walls, looked inside through a half-wrecked doorway, and saw the entire ground floor at one glance because the internal walls had collapsed, leaving only a stone staircase which led upwards past the still intact ceiling. On an impulse he stepped inside and carefully mounted the staircase which trembled under his footsteps. He emerged on to a flat roof, the floor of the upper storey which had vanished, and it gave him an all-round view over the rubble-strewn desolation behind the house, a region of large bomb craters. Inside one huge hole something flashed in the sunlight.

Lebrun knew instantly that Barnes had spotted him and now he began to scramble to his feet, kicking up dust from the crater floor, shouting hysterically at the top of his voice as he lifted the rifle and waved it harmlessly. The silver on the stock flashed again and again in the sun. Was he saying that the rifle wasn’t loaded, was he begging for mercy? Barnes neither knew nor cared. Without pity, without any real emotion, he lowered the muzzle of the machine-pistol, braced his legs and fired, sweeping the fusillade of bullets over the crater floor where they coughed up spurts of dust. Lebrun was on his feet and suddenly he jerked, then he fell over backwards and lay still. The bombed zone was terribly silent.