Колин Форбс - Tramp in Armour

‘Barnes. A couple of motor-cycles and side-cars at the edge of this square. They’ve got lights on but there doesn’t seem to be anyone about…’

Barnes coaxed a little more speed from the engines, staring along his headlight beams which now stretched across the small square to the street beyond. He sat wedged in between the boxes of detonators which were stacked on either side and the proximity of so much explosive wasn’t a comfortable feeling, but he had insisted on loading these spare boxes to increase the power of the bomb. Now he wondered whether he had overdone it. Highly unstable, British detonators, Colburn had said. The Germans used Trotyl, which was far less temperamental. And Colburn was, a man who should know. They were halfway across the square now and subconsciously he was listening for the first sound of Colburn’s voice, because if he spoke now that would mean trouble. The avenue of darkness ahead moved towards him and then they left the square and the beams stabbed along a straight street. Colburn’s voice was tense.

‘They came out just as we left the square – a couple of Germans. They stopped and stared for a few seconds and then ran for one of the bikes.’

Barnes gazed ahead. It was starting already. There was a turning down to the left he had to negotiate soon and that would mean reducing speed a lot, and this was the last moment they should be slowing down if one of those motorcycles was after them. He wished to God that the intercom was two-way, that he could warn Colburn to watch the man in the side-car, the one who would be carrying a machine-pistol. Colburn’s voice again.

‘The cycle is following us down this street. I know there’s a left turn soon but keep up your speed. Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.’

Colburn was really worried. He looked back to where the lights of the oncoming cycle were closing the gap rapidly. He realized the danger to himself perched up in the turret – if the cycle was allowed to come close enough the man in the side-; car would blast his head off with the machine-pistol he had seen him running with. He took one grenade out of the satchel and then he took another, laying the second one behind the plunger box where it couldn’t roll: it wasn’t an action that many would have taken but to Colburn the box was dead until the switch was turned. He also glanced down inside the turret towards the bed of gun-cotton. Don’t drop this little feller down there, he told himself. He had his finger inside the ring-head of the pin now. Get it right, Colburn: allow for the tank’s speed and the onrush of the cycle. And get it good. You’re pitching the ball at Toronto. Removing bomb from pin, he counted. One, two, three, four. He threw. Without waiting his hand whipped over the second grenade, inserting his finger. Withdraw. Count. He had his head down as the first grenade blew only feet in front of the Germans. A hard lethal crack split the street. The flash lit the walls and the cycle climbed, taking the side-car with it, wheels spinning futilely, the side-car ripping away from the cycle. He threw the second one from inside the turret, just to get rid of it now that it was no longer needed, and by the flash of the second bomb he saw a shadowed wreck in the street behind it. Even the lights had gone. He let out his breath and the sound travelled down the intercom to Barnes.

‘Got them.’

Colburn leant back against the turret and wiped sweat off his hands on his flying suit. He had shot men out of the air but this Was different. He had caught a brief glimpse of the man in the side-car pitching out head first towards the ground and he was amazed it was all over so quickly. He had been very frightened for those few minutes, so frightened that he had made a bad mistake in not wiping his hand earlier – that second grenade had nearly slipped, had nearly gone down inside the turret. The very thought of it made him sweat again but now that it was all over he felt enormously relieved, relieved that he was still alive. And this was a mere bagatelle, a single motor-cycle and side-car. What faced them somewhere just ahead would be on a far bigger scale. The headlights played on a distant wall with wording painted on the plaster. Restaurant de la Gare. He spoke quickly into the mike.

‘That building’s coming up – the restaurant place. Prepare to turn left. I’ll guide you.’

Barnes was already reducing speed and he began turning very slowly, bis hands an extension of Colburn’s instructions as they eased Bert round. The turning was sharp and almost at once they moved on to a downward slope of cobbles. He had to crawl round, edging his way as Colburn leaned out of the turret to check wall clearance, talking down the intercom all the time. They nearly scraped the right-hand wall, then they were round the corner, the tank straightening up and proceeding down the cobbled street, its metal tracks grinding and clattering over the stones. That was close, Colburn was thinking, but we managed it nicely between us. He peered along the beams, still savouring the sensation of relief, wondering how Barnes was feeling.

Inside the nose of the tank Barnes was experiencing a rather different sensation – Barnes was in serious trouble and he wondered whether they had a dog’s chance of making it as a chill of fear seeped through him. One of the detonator boxes had broken loose. It had happened on that last bend while he was struggling grimly to negotiate the corner and allow for the drop in street level. They were almost round the turning when he felt a heavy blow strike his right shoulder. Still in the process of taking Bert round the corner he only had time for a quick glance sideways and this showed him the heavy box projecting well beyond the one it rested on, kept stable now only by the obstacle of his own body. As he moved down the hill, the tank wobbling slightly as it rumbled over the cobbles, he tried to ease the box back into position with his shoulder. The action nearly made him jump out of his seat as pain from the maltreated wound screamed through his body, stabbing at his brain. For one terrible second he thought he was going to faint. He bit down on his lips to drive away the dizziness and reopened the cut in his mouth, tasting his own blood for the second time that night. The heavy box was pressing against his shoulder all the time and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it, except to pray that at the next right-hand turn the box would regain its balance. Was he still driving straight? He forced himself to concentrate on the view through the slit window.

‘Barnes, I can see the canal embankment beyond the bottom of this street, so we’re on the right road. And we turn right in a minute.’

Barnes had been waiting for that right-hand turn but he knew that with both hands occupied with the steering levers his shoulder was still going to have to bear the brunt of shoving that box back against the wall. Would he be able to stand the pain; Colburn’s voice again, a voice edged with tension, the sure sign of further trouble.

‘Something coming up… a soldier in a doorway, a sentry, I think. Keep moving at this speed – we’ll have to turn in less than a hundred yards…’

Colburn ducked his head inside the turret and waited, waited for the challenge, the pause, then the first burst of fire from the machine-pistol the sentry held across his chest. His own machine-pistol was gripped in his hands and he looked upward beyond the open rim of the turret. The tank clattered down over the cobbles, the dark silhouette of irregular rooftops slid past beyond the turret rim, cold specks of starlight glittered distantly in the late night sky. The moon was low now and an early morning chill prickled the back of his neck. Still no sound from the sentry. He couldn’t stand it any longer: he peered over the rim. Nothing moved but he thought that he could still see the shadowed figure by the doorway, a motionless figure. It was incredible. Some of his astonishment travelled down the intercom.