Колин Форбс - Tramp in Armour

Quickly he gave Barnes an instruction to veer on to a fresh course which would head him straight for the entrance to the hangar which they were approaching,broadside on. As to going below and watching through the periscope, that would be useless: he’d have to stay in the turret to keep the perfect observation they needed. He lifted his machine-pistol. As they approached the line of barbed wire Colburn almost forgot the holocaust which must await them; there was so much to see, to note. An armoured car parked close to the hangar, the outline of another vehicle which seemed familiar, signs of movement over to the left behind the mist. He recognized the vehicle now – a giant transporter with a tank on its deck. It was then that he saw the first Germans – small figures on the deck working by the light of shaded lamps. His hands tightened on the machine-pistol as the tank rumbled closer and closer. Surely those men must have seen them, must have heard them coming? But as he watched he saw a violet glow and sparks flashed strangely in the mist. They were using welding equipment and the sound of their tools had smothered the sound of Bert’s engines. Still there was no indication that they had been spotted and the line of wire was very close now, coils of mist like gun-smoke floating behind the tangled network.

It was pure luck that he turned his head in the right direction and saw movement low down on the ground just beyond the wire, fifty yards away to the right. In the deceptive light he made out a square shield, the profile of a long barrel, a barrel which was swivelling. The barrel of the field piece was traversing as though it had not yet locked onto its target. Scrambling down inside the fighting compartment he jammed himself into the gunner’s seat, hugging the shoulder-grip, his hand grasping the traverse lever. The compartment rotated too fast and too far, so he had to bring it round again, his eye glued to the telescopic sight. The range was point blank, for field piece as well as for two-pounder. He had to get his shot in first. The cross-wires locked on to the shield smudge as he depressed the barrel a few degrees. He squeezed the trigger and the tank bucked under the impact of the recoil. God! The explosives! He waited for the tank to disintegrate but it was still grinding forward. He traversed to find the target and saw a cloud of white smoke replacing the white mist swirls. Dead on target. Climbing back up into the turret he looked round quickly. The tank had reached the wire and then the scratching noises began as it threshed over the coils. The field piece had vanished inside the smoke and from now on it all became a kaleidoscope, for Colburn as he went on speaking to Barnes automatically, guiding him towards the hangar entrance.

Men had appeared from nowhere, running towards the stationary armoured car. Colburn realized the danger at once and he raised his machine-pistol and took careful aim. As his finger pulled firmly on the trigger he swivelled the gun. He swivelled from a point close to the armoured car outwards, so that his hail of bullets cut them down before they could reach the vehicle, bringing down three men while a fourth man ran straight into the fusillade, stopping suddenly in mid-stride as he flung up his arms and fell to the ground. As Colburn inserted a fresh magazine he gave a direction change. The tank was still moving forward, passing within inches of the steel-plated sides of the armoured car, its nose pointed towards a machine gun which had just been manned by a soldier who had darted out from the shadow of the hangar. Colburn ducked, hearing bullets spatter the sides of the turret, and the tank accelerated, its steel bulk thrust forward and driving over man and gun, crushing flesh and metal under its pulverizing tracks.

Their course was now taking them close to the tank transporter and Colburn remembered the men who had worked on it. Pressing the trigger, he swept the deck with a semi-circle of fire, seeing men falling over the side. He heard a brief burst of answering fire before another German fell forward after his machine-pistol had dropped under the tank’s tracks. Colburn knew that he had been hit in the left shoulder, which had suddenly gone numb. He also realized that he had emptied his magazine as a capless figure in overalls came out from behind the tank and jumped from the deck on to Bert’s hull. Dropping his machine-pistol on to the ledge he grabbed his revolver as the overalled figure lifted something he held in his hand – a spanner? – Colburn never knew as he raised his revolver and shot the German once in the face, saw him topple backwards and fall under the tracks which ground forward over him. He spoke breathlessly into the mike.

‘We’re almost there. Keep straight on…’

It was the tanks which worried Barnes. His own kind. He knew what they were capable of. They had to reach the hangar entrance before the Germans brought up heavy tanks. Without a loader-operator to re-load the two-pounder Colburn would never stand a chance against them, even supposing he could hit one of them if he tried. Down in the tank nose Barnes never knew about the smashed field piece. He was concentrating on keeping going. The element of surprise. Ram it down their bloody throats till the end. He thought they must be pretty close now, close to General Heinrich Storch. Colburn was coping well. He could hear machine-gun bullets ricocheting off the hull now, angry metal bees glancing harmlessly off the armour-plate. Sweat streamed off his face and hands but the pain had receded as his nerves strung up to fever pitch took over for one last effort. They’d almost made it. If they were hit with a shell which penetrated, this lot round him would blow and it ought to take the dump up with it, but he’d like to be certain, absolutely certain. He wanted Bert in the mouth of that hangar. Through the slit window he saw men coming round the end of the building, but had Colburn seen them? Colburn had seen them. With great difficulty he had inserted a fresh magazine and now he was slumped forward over the turret, the machine-pistol crooked under his right armpit, his right hand curled round the trigger as he lifted the muzzle high. It was like lifting a cannon and the tank seemed to be rocking strangely like a ship in a choppy sea. His left shoulder was beginning to ache now, a thudding ache which affected his whole body as though it were being plucked like an immense violin string.

He managed it, he lifted the gun higher and squeezed hard, vibrating the muzzle madly from side to side as he sprayed it wildly over the running group of men. They collapsed in a heap, too closely bunched together to spread out in time, only one man firing a few random shots, so random that they missed even the tank which was bearing down on them non-stop. Colburn’s finger relaxed on the trigger and he slumped forward over the turret rim, still holding on to the pistol, the weapon now held up between his chest and the rim.

Colburn was still hanging on desperately to consciousness when Barnes reached the end of the hangar, braked his right-hand track, carrying the tank round on the left-hand track, advancing several yards again and then stopping in the mouth of the open hangar. Colburn was vaguely aware that they had arrived and he lifted his head, catching a brief glimpse of the shell dump, of great stacks of wooden boxes. Then his eyes switched to the next hangar corner which he instinctively felt to be the danger point. A group of helmeted figures ran recklessly round the corner and he operated the gun with one arm and one hand, swivelling the muzzle as he poured out a hail of bullets at point-blank range into the compact mass of running bodies. It became a muddle and a massacre, the front men falling, the ones behind tripping over their bodies and dying in the subsequent rain of fire. Then his magazine was empty and he knew that he could never re-load. Beyond the inert bodies he could see a squat dark shape moving from the laager towards him. He whispered down the mike.