Колин Форбс - Tramp in Armour

The turret of the tank was visible now, again protruding strangely like the conning tower of a submarine, but this time like a submarine trapped in a sea of burning oil. It gave Barnes a pang to see it standing there and for a moment he moved back out of the smoke to assess the position. It looked quite hopeless. They had removed the greater part of the upper walls and the roof but the haystack still seethed with smoke and from inside it he could hear that horrid flame crackle working farther down. He saw Penn helping Mandel to carry away another bale and he opened his mouth to stop him, then closed it again without saying anything as he directed the water jet on to the hull of the tank. The temperature inside there must be ferocious, and never for a second could he forget that Bert was bloated – bloated with fuel, with shells, with ammunition – a state of affairs which only a few hours ago he had congratulated himself on but which might now bring about the death of the tank and several of its would-be rescuers. They were working at such a frenzied pitch that they hardly realized the injuries they were suffering from the scorching heat, but Barnes had already noticed that Reynolds’ ‘right forearm was an ugly mass of blisters. As he began hosing down the outer walls again Barnes himself narrowly escaped the most appalling injuries. He was directing the jet low down when he heard a shout from Etienne above him. Instinctively he jumped sideways. A mass of burning hay which had been balancing precariously in the power-grab shovel smothered the spot where he had stood a moment before. He swivelled the jet and drenched the hay, but it took several minutes to put the fire out and afterwards he couldn’t understand why it hadn’t set light to the main wall low down.

Some time later he again stepped well back from the stack to see how much progress they were making, almost bumping into Reynolds who was carrying a blazing mass of hay towards the road when suddenly it disintegrated, almost collapsing in the driver’s face. He just had time to jump clear but a shower of red-hot sparks sprayed over his already badly-blistered arm. Wiping his hand over his sweating forehead, Reynolds headed back to the stack while Jacques who had been leaning on his own fork, joined him.

‘We’ve nearly done it,’ said Mandel.

‘Have we?’

Barnes was astonished. Once he had emerged from the clouds of smoke the stack looked far quieter than he could ever have dared to hope. Bert was now exposed to halfway down his hull at the front, and although the turret was only occasionally visible behind the pall of smoke the vicious redness of the flames had died away. He paused to wipe his eyes with his handkerchief and then ran forward, switching on the hose: a line of flame had appeared along the top of the front wall and was growing with alarming speed. They’d never get the thing out. And close to the tank the temperature was still incredible, so fiercely concentrated that it seemed to come towards him in an invisible glow from the metal plates. It would happen so suddenly that they would probably have no warning – fuel first, one blasting outward thump, then the series of sharp explosions,as the ammunition started to burn, but they would probably never hear that second sound being as close to the tank as they were. It’s like being on top of a ruddy great bomb, he thought. Through the smoke he could see figures moving without knowing who they were. Then, some time later, he thought, they at last had the inferno finally under control. It should only be a matter of dousing with water until even the smoke faded away. At that moment he heard a frenzied shout from Reynolds.

‘A burning bale’s just dropped down Bert’s side – it’s flaring up close to the fuel tank.’

Barnes tried to run forward through the smoke and was jerked backwards. The hose was trapped round the wheel of the power-grab. He lost precious seconds releasing it and then jumped up on to the front wall. The flaring bale had fallen down over the far side but. someone had got there first. Reynolds. He lifted his pitch-fork behind him to the fullest extent and then rammed it down like a bayonet, plunging the fork deep into the huge bale which was trapped between the hull and the rear wall of hay. Twisting it to tighten the fork’s grip, he began to lift. From behind him Barnes could see the veins standing out on his left arm under the frightful strain. Two men had been handling these intact bales and now Reynolds was trying to hoist one by himself, to hoist it upwards from a position below him. Incredibly the bale began to come loose, edging upwards as flames danced round the buried fork. Reynolds went on lifting, his legs splayed wide on the hull, his broad back arching. The bale came up suddenly with a rush, but Reynolds was ready for that and he regained his balance by leaning back against the turret. He must have seen Barnes waiting with the hose because as he turned he shouted, ‘Get out of my way!’

Without the least idea of what the driver was going to do Barnes leapt back to the ground. Reynolds began to swing the bale in a slow arc through a hundred and eighty degrees, holding the massive weight at arm’s length as the fire spread towards him along the fork. Stepping down off the wall he nearly lost his balance, but again he recovered as flames burst out all over the bale. Then he calmly walked across the grass to the road, still holding the flaming mass at arm’s length. He had almost reached the road when it ignited into a small inferno, burning back and enveloping Reynolds. Barnes saw him hurl the bale forward, pitch-fork and all. It landed in the road and burst as Reynolds turned round to face the stack, both arms badly burned now, his hair singed, his face a brick-red colour. Ten minutes later Barnes was moving the hose over hay which barely smoked and the fire was out, but he still played the hose over the remaining walls and across the huh. He had sent the others back to the house and now only Mandel wandered round the relic of the stack, holding a pitch-fork and finding nothing to do with it. Leaning over the wall Barnes touched the hull and quickly snatched his hand away.

‘You. think it’s safe now?’ asked Mandel. ‘The petrol, I mean.’

‘If it was going up it should have gone up by now. Can you get Etienne to use his grab to shift the hay in front of the tank? When it cools down I’ll have another go at the engine, but that won’t be for a while yet. You’ll be damned glad to see the back of us, Mandel.’

‘This is our war effort. Who knows – your tank may strike a decisive blow at the enemy.’

A decisive blow? It seemed a little unlikely to Barnes at that moment and even less likely when later he followed them into the house to assess the damage to his crew. The kitchen had all the appearances of a casualty clearing station. Jacques who was now outside watching the road, and Etienne, had escaped with only minor burns, but Perm and Reynolds had borne the brunt of the injuries. Reynolds seemed to be in the worst state: he was sitting in a chair with his arms stretched out across the table and both arms had been bandaged by Marianne from wrist to just below the shoulder. As Barnes came in the driver stood up swaying slightly, and Mandel began to help him on with his shirt while Marianne attended to Perm who was flopped in the armchair. She had just finished applying a bandage which covered the whole of his left forearm and he winced as she tied the knot. But when he saw Barnes he managed a grin.

‘Now it really looks as though your crew has been in the wars.’

‘How are you feeling, Penn?’

‘Like a fortnight by the sea Would Abbeville be a good idea do you think?’

‘What about you, Reynolds?’

Barnes turned to his driver with a special anxiety because without Reynolds the status of the unit was definitely noncombatant. Barnes could drive the tank but he couldn’t from the driving compartment at the same time keep close all-round observation and operate the guns when necessary. Clinically he watched the process of Reynolds finding his way back inside the shirt Mandel was holding, noticing that Reynolds was able to bend his elbows and seemed to have full use of his hands. It was his face which worried Barnes most at the moment. Normally, Reynolds looked the picture of physical well-being, his complexion ruddy like that of a man who spent most of his life outdoors, but now the driver’s face was chalk-white, drained of all colour.