Колин Форбс - Tramp in Armour

‘And what is a Limey doing in this part of France, I’d like to know? Don’t shoot the pilot – he’s done his best!’

‘You’re an RAF pilot?’

Barnes asked the question sharply, his pistol still armed at the pilot’s chest as his eyes roamed over every inch of the man’s flying suit. From underneath goggles pushed up over the leather helmet a rugged face stared upwards at Barnes, the face of a man who might be any age between twenty-five and thirty-five. His skin was tanned brown, the texture almost as leathery as the suit he wore; his huge nose, strongly boned, overhung a broad, firm-lipped mouth, and his jaw-line suggested great strength of character. This, thought Barnes, is a tough egg, a very tough egg. But the overall impression of toughness was tempered by the humorous expression in his blue eyes, a humour which came to the surface with his reply.

‘If I’m not RAP the Luftwaffe is employing some pretty dubious characters.’

His accent was heavily American and this alone was disconcerting, plus the fact that the pilot himself appeared more amused than disconcerted, an unusual reaction when a man found himself at the wrong end of a gun. But Barnes couldn’t forget that Penn had thought Seft a genuine Belgian, and it was just possible that the Luftwaffe employed a few renegade Americans.

‘Get on your feet,’ Barnes said tightly.

‘Coming down I think I broke both me legs, Sergeant.’

God, another lame duck to take aboard Bert. As if it wasn’t enough having to cope with Penn he was now going to have another patient on his hands. The tank was rapidly turning into a casualty clearing station: the only trouble was that there was nowhere to clear them to. He went back several paces as the pilot clambered carefully to his feet. The stranger grinned.

‘Correction, Sergeant. I just feel as though I’ve broken both me legs. Ever landed in one of those things? The ground looks to be coming up so peacefully and then at the last minute it flies up and hits you like a steam-hammer.’

‘I didn’t know the RAF were recruiting Americans,’ Barnes said grimly.

‘Canadians, please!’ He lifted one gloved hand in mock horror. ‘Although your error of geography is understandable, Sergeant. My mother is Canadian and my father was American, but I was born in Canada. Ever heard of Wainwright, Alberta? No, I didn’t think you would have. It’s about the size of a pinhead but the CNR expresses do stop there to unload drums of ice-cream for the locals.’ He gestured behind Barnes. ‘Is that your tin can back there?’

‘The tin can is a Matilda tank. Have you any way of proving your identity?’

‘Sure. If I unbutton my jacket and slip my hand inside real slow you’ll promise not to pull the trigger?’

Barnes didn’t reply and he watched the pilot’s hand carefully as it ferreted inside the jacket, but when the fingers came out again they only held an RAF identity card. The pilot held it between his fingers for a moment.

‘Now if I try and hand it to you there’s a danger you’ll think I’m going to jump you. On the other hand, if I drop it on the ground for you to pick it up. I could just possibly land a boot in your eye. So which is it to be?’

‘Drop it on the ground – then take six paces back.’

The pilot was still pacing backwards when Barnes stooped quickly to grab the identity card. Using only his left hand he fingered open the card, wondering whether he was carrying on with his check through caution or sheer cussedness at Colburn’s attitude. Because that was the name in the card. Flying Officer James Q. Colburn.

‘The Q is for Quinn,’ Colburn explained helpfully, ‘which comes from my mother’s side of the family. The Quinns are an old British Columbia family – old, that is, by Canadian standards – although…’

‘All right, Colburn.’ Barnes skimmed the card through the air and the pilot caught it with his left hand. ‘What happened up there near the sun?’

‘You’re satisfied with my identity, then, Sergeant?’

‘I think so.’

‘Well how about letting me see your pay-book – or am I supposed to take you at face value alone?’

Barnes looked at the six-foot pilot. He had a seriously ill loader-operator on his hands, he was in a great hurry to push on to the next village in search of medical help, and he had expected to find a Luftwaffe pilot struggling to free himself from the cords. He was certainly in no mood for wisecracks with freelance Canadians.

‘I’m Sergeant Barnes and if you think I’m going to show you my pay-book you’re out of your tiny mind. What do you think that thing standing behind me is – a Jerry tank? And even you must have seen a British Army uniform.’

‘All right! All right!’ Colburn waved a placatory hand. ‘And don’t think I don’t appreciate you’ve probably had a hell of a fortnight, whereas I’m just over here for the afternoon. At least I thought I was,’ he added. ‘But may I point out that I’m wearing RAF flying kit and that what you saw come down in flames wasn’t a vacuum cleaner. It was, at the time of take-off from Mansion, a perfectly good Hurricane.’

‘It came down so quickly I hardly saw it till the crash. A Messerschmitt got you, I suppose?’

‘Three of them – although that’s no excuse. They chased me down here from the coast, which was a ‘bad reaction on my part since I hadn’t the petrol to make home base even if I -could have clobbered the lot. Let’s face it – they out-manoeuvred me. And, Sergeant, do I have to sing Auld Lang Syne before you’ll put away the carbine?’

Barnes lowered the machine-pistol and nodded. ‘Sorry, but we had a little trouble with a German fifth columnist who said he was Belgian so I’m taking nothing for granted. You could have been one yourself, Colburn.’

‘Out of the sky?’ queried the Canadian ironically, then his expression changed. ‘I’m sorry – you’re right to check everything. Those characters really exist, then? We’ve heard plenty of rumours – so many you’d think France was swarming with them.’

‘The only thing this part of France swarms with is Panzers.’ Barnes stared hard at Colburn before he went on. Was Colburn really as tough as he looked? ‘You’ve come down in the middle of a gigantic no-man’s-land which could be at least twenty miles wide, but the only troops we’ve seen are parts of armoured divisions. We’re completely on our own – just one Matilda tank.’

Barnes had relaxed a little now and he was prepared to wait for a few more precious minutes while he made up his mind. He was studying Colburn quite dispassionately, without the least trace of sentiment, weighing him up ruthlessly. And Barnes had some experience of weighing up men. In this instance he was applying only one criterion – would Colburn be an asset or a liability? If he was going to be the latter then he wasn’t coming with them. Colburn stared at him steadily.

‘You mean the rest of your outfit got wiped out?’

‘I mean we got separated from them at the very beginning and it’s been that way ever since. If you come with us you’d better understand we have one two-pounder gun, one light machine gun, several machine-pistols and three revolvers. That’s the extent of our armament and so far we’ve escaped detection by three separate Panzer columns by the skin of our teeth.’

‘Sounds a little one-sided. I’d have thought you could do with a little reinforcement.’

‘We could, but tanks don’t fly and you’re a pilot.’

‘You may have a point there. What’s the alternative?’

‘The alternative, Colburn, is to make your own way home.’ He paused. ‘Unless you’d sooner take the easier way out and walk down that road into Cambrai where the Germans are. Then you could spend the rest of your war in a nice quiet POW camp.’