by Colin Forbes
Tramp in Armour
Colin Forbes served with the British Army during the war, mostly in the Mediterranean zone. After 1946 he had various occupations before writing his first book in 1965, and within two years of its publication he left the business world to become a full-time writer. His books have been translated into ten languages and all have been published in the United States as well as in Britain. Tramp in Armour, The Heights of Zervos, The Palermo Ambush, Target Five, Year of the Golden Ape, The Stone Leopard and Avalanche Express are all published by Pan.
His main interest apart from writing is foreign travel and this has taken him to most West European countries. Married to a Scots-Canadian, he has one daughter.
Colin Forbes
Tramp in Armour
Pan Books in association with Collins
Author's note
I wish to record my thanks to Mr M. J. Willis and to Mr P. Simpkin of the Imperial War Museum for their invaluable technical assistance.
First published 1969 by William Collins Sons & Co Ltd
This edition published 1971 by Pan Books Ltd,
Cavaye Place, London SW10 9PG
in association with William Collins Sons & Co Ltd
7th printing 1978
© Colin Forbes 1969
ISBN 0 330 02686 0
Printed in Great Britain by
Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
To Jane
ONE
Thursday, May 16th
The war had started.
'Advance right, driver. Advance right. Two-pounder, traverse left, traverse left. Steady...'
The tank commander, Sergeant Barnes, thought that should do the trick - when the tank emerged from the ramp on to the rail embankment, in full view of the German troops of General von Bock's Army Group B, the turret would rest at an angle of ninety degrees to the forward movement of the vehicle, the two-pounder and the Besa machine gun aimed straight at the enemy. The tank crawled upwards at a steady five miles per hour, still invisible to the German wave advancing across open fields to assault the embankment behind which the British Expeditionary Force waited for them, while overhead the sun shone down on Belgium out of a clear blue sky, the prelude to the long endless summer of 1940.
Barnes' squadron of tanks was positioned on the extreme right of the BEF line, and the troop of three tanks which formed his own unit was stationed on the extreme right of the squadron. Somewhere beyond this troop the French First Army, the next major formation which faced the attacking German army group, reached out its left flank to link up with the BEF, but this vital link was not apparent, which was why Barnes had just received his urgent wireless instruction from Lieutenant Parker, his troop commander.
'Find out where the hell the French are, Barnes, and report back immediately, if not sooner.'
The natural route to the French, the road below the embankment, had been blocked by dive-bombers, and now what had once been a road was a barrier of wrecked buildings, so Barnes decided there was only one way to go - up to the top of the embankment and along the rail track in full view of the enemy. The prospect of exposing his tank like a silhouette on a target range didn't greatly worry him: the armour on the upper side of the hull was seventy millimetres thick and none of the light weapons the German advance troops carried could do more than scratch the surface. As for the big stuff farther back, which was already lobbing shells into the BEF rear areas, well, he'd be off this embankment before they could bring down the range of their artillery. Any moment now, he told himself, pressing his eye to the periscope.
Four men crewed the tank: Trooper Reynolds inside his own separate driving compartment in the nose of the tank, while in the central fighting compartment Barnes shared the confined space with his gunner, Trooper Davis, and his loader-operator, Corporal Penn. The fighting compartment in the centre of the tank was shaped rather like a conning tower, the upper portion protruding above the tank's hull; the floor, only a few feet above the ground, comprised a turntable suspended from the turret, so that when the power-traverse went into action the entire compartment rotated as a single unit, carrying round with it the guns and the three men inside, the traverse system controlled by the gunner at the commander's instructions. They were very close to the top of the embankment now, but still the view through the periscope showed only the scrubby grass of the descending slope, while outside all hell was breaking loose, a hell of sound infinitely magnified inside the confines of the metal hull: the horrid crump of mortar bombs exploding, the scream of shells heading for the rear area, while the permanent accompaniment to this symphony of death was an endless crack of rifle shots, a steady rattle of machine-gun fire. It was only possible for the crew to hear Barnes' sharp instructions because he gave them over the intercom, a one-way system of communication through the microphone hanging from his neck which transmitted the words to earphones clamped over the crew's heads. Barnes screwed up his eyes, saw the wall of embankment disappear. They were over the top.
The view was much as he had expected, but there were many more of them - long lines of helmeted Germans in field grey advancing like the waves of a rising tide, running towards him across a vast field. Some carried rifles, some machine-pistols, and there were clusters with light machine guns. The tank had reached the embankment at the very moment when the first assault was being mounted.
'Driver, straight down the railway - behind those loading sheds. Two-pounder. Six hundred.' Davis set the range on his telescope. 'Traverse left.' With a hiss of air, turret and crew began to swing round, the tank still moving forward. 'Traverse left.' The turret screamed round faster, the guns and the fighting crew now at an angle of forty-five degrees to the tank hull. 'Steady,' Barnes warned, his gaze through the periscope fixed on the anti-tank gun hi the distance as a fusillade of bullets rattled on the armour-plate. 'Anti-tank gun,' he snapped, pinpointing the target.
'Fire!'
Davis squeezed the trigger. The tank shuddered under the recoil, the turret was swamped with a stench of cordite. Barnes didn't hear the explosion but he saw it - a burst of white smoke on the gun position, a brief eruption of the ground. Then they were moving behind the loading bays which the ramp served, out of sight of the enemy for swiftly passing seconds, emerging again as Barnes gave fresh orders.
'Besa...'
The destroyed anti-tank gun was the only immediate menace to Bert, as they called their tank. Now for the German troops. The tank had scarcely moved beyond the sheltering wall of the loading bays when the Besa opened fire, the turret traversing in an arc from left to right, pouring out a murderous stream of bullets which cut down the first wave of Germans like a scythe. The turret began to swing in a second arc, the Besa elevated slightly to bring down the second wave, and all the time the tank moved forward down the rail track while Penn, who had already re-loaded the two-pounder, attended to his wireless. Parker, the troop commander, was speaking to Barnes now.
'What's the picture, Barnes?'
'German assault waves just coming in - they'll be over the top in your sector any second now. They stretch as far as I can see, sir. Over.'
He pressed the lever on his mike which controlled wireless communication and waited. Parker sounded exasperated.
'But the French, Barnes - can you see the bloody French?'
'Nothing so far, sir. I'll report back shortly. Off.'
All the way up the ramp and along the emban
kment so far the turret lid had been closed down, so Barnes had relied on the periscope to let him know what was happening outside, a method of sighting which he found restricted and unsatisfactory. Now that he could no longer hear the clatter of bullets ricocheting harmlessly off the armour-plate, he risked it, pushing up the turret lid and lifting his head above the rim. For once, he was wearing his tin hat. A quick glance told him that no Germans were close to the section of the embankment they were advancing along. Instead, the troops in that area were running back across the field away from him: they had seen what had happened to their mates. To encourage their flight he gave orders to fire the two-pounder twice and then called for a burst from the Besa. If he was really going to see what was going on he would have to lift his head well out of the turret. He clambered up and stood erect, half his body above the rim, gazing all round quickly as he gave Reynolds instructions automatically.
'Driver, full speed ahead down this railway. All the speed Bert will give.'
The tank began to pick up speed, one caterpillar track outside the railway, the other travelling midway between the two iron lines, while inside the driving compartment Reynolds had his eyes glued to the slit window in front, a window protected by four-inch armoured glass. Normally, he sat on his jacked-up seat with his head protruding clear of the hatch in the front hull, but now this seat was depressed so that he sat inside the hull and a steel hood was closed over the hatch above his head. He vaguely wondered what Barnes was going to do next, a line of thought which was occupying Barnes himself at the same moment.
To the left the fields of Belgium stretched away to disappear inside a curtain of black smoke, the result of RAF bombing and BEF heavy artillery fire. In front of the curtain small figures moved like the inhabitants of a disturbed anthill, but always the apparently chaotic movement was forward, except in the sector ahead of the tank. They were now perched a good twenty feet above the surrounding countryside and to Barnes' dismay he realized that the embankment was gradually rising all the time the farther south they progressed, the sides growing steeper, making their descent from the railway more difficult every yard they moved forward. His eyes scanned the ground on the Allied side of the embankment and saw nothing which comforted him. As he had anticipated when he had decided to mount the embankment and make a dash along the railway, it gave him an excellent view of the battle area. The outskirts of the Belgian town of Etreux had been badly battered by the Stuka raids, but even at this early stage of the campaign he was becoming used to these scenes of devastation. What he had not expected was that the desert of rubble would be unoccupied, and as his eyes searched and searched again for signs of life a chill began to crawl up his spine. The wireless crackled: someone was coming on the air again.
'Hullo, hullo! Troop calling. Parker here. Anything to report, Barnes?'
'Barnes here, sir. No sign of our friends yet. Repeat, no sign of our friends. I am a quarter of a mile out and no sign of them yet. Repeat, at least a quarter of a mile. Over.'
'Are you quite sure, Barnes? I've got to report to Brigade at once. I must be quite sure. Over.'
'Quite sure, sir. I'm twenty-five feet up here and the place has been flattened, so vision is good. I'm a quarter of a mile out at least and there's no sign of them ahead. Do I proceed farther or return? Over.'
'Proceed a farther quarter of a mile if you can, then report again. Over.'
'Barnes OK. Off.'
At least it was a convenient distance. The tank was still moving ahead along the railway line, the embankment straight as a ruler, and about a quarter of a mile farther along the line disappeared into a steep hillside. Barnes could see the arched opening of a tunnel clearly now. So the distance was all right, but the timing probably wasn't. He glanced at his watch and calculated that within the next two or three minutes the Germans would have wirelessed back for artillery support to lay down a barrage along the top of the embankment. Soon the first ranging shots would be falling, a spotter would be reporting their fall, and unless Barnes was very much mistaken they would hardly have completed their quarter-mile run before the shells began to bracket the tank. The fact that the embankment was so damned straight would make the German gunners' work that much easier. He wondered how the others liked being stuck up silhouetted against the skyline and glanced down inside the turret. Davis had the shoulder-grip tucked into position and he couldn't see the gunner's expression, but Penn happened to look up and on his thin, intelligent face Barnes thought he detected signs of worry, but then it would always be Penn who worried first because Penn had the imagination to think of all the things which might happen. Too much intelligence could be a distinct disadvantage when you were locked up inside a tank. He spoke briefly into the mike, urging Reynolds to keep up the speed.
Below him the ruins of Etreux glided past while he continually watched for the first sight of a gun position, for French troops. There had been a muck-up, the certainty of this was growing on him. First, there had been the hectic rush forward on May 10th when news of the German invasion of Holland and Belgium had come in, a rush from behind prepared defences on the Franco-Belgian frontier out into the open to meet the German onslaught in head-on collision. And now it was Thursday May 16th, only six days later. To Barnes it felt more like six weeks later, but at least they were stuck into them. For a brief moment he glanced back to where the line of German dead lay, victims of the Besa's murderous sweeping arcs. He felt not a trace of pity, but he also felt no exultation, only perhaps a certain satisfaction that one of the few British tanks with the BEF was already proving its worth.
The railway tunnel was very close now, barely two hundred yards away, the black arch coming closer every second as the tank ground forward. And still no sign of the French, no sign at all. He'd have to report back soon now. Even in this sector there was a lot of noise - the heavy boom of the big artillery, the whine of shells - and this was why Barnes failed to detect the arrival of the enemy. Also, in his concentration on Etreux, he had neglected to search the sky for the past minute. It happened with terrifying suddenness - the appearance of a plane above his head screaming down in a power dive. He looked up as he dived inside the tank, saw the Messerschmitt hurtling earthwards, its guns blazing straight at Bert, and rammed down the lid, almost crushing his fingers in his haste. But he was just too late - one bullet whistled in under the closing lid, missing Barnes by millimetres, and terror entered the tank.
With the driver's hood closed and with the turret lid down, the occupants of a Mk II Matilda tank in 1940 could feel themselves reasonably secure against everything except a direct hit. On the other hand, if by some mischance a bullet from a rifle or a machine gun were able to enter the armoured confines of the tank, then what had once been a haven of comparative safety immediately became a death-trap. Entering the mobile fortress under the impetus of its own tremendous velocity the bullet has to spend its velocity somewhere, and it does this by ricocheting back and forth off the armour-plate hull of the interior of the tank, flying about unpredictably in all directions until its force is spent - normally by its entry into human flesh. As soon as the bullet entered, the three men knew what they were in for, and knew that there wasn't a thing they could do about it - except to wait and pray. The biting sound of bullet tearing from one metal surface to another only lasted for a brief period in time, but nerves stretched to breaking-point by the wear and tear of battle reacted to screaming pitch as the danger flashed into three battered minds, drawing from them in seconds reserves of physical and mental strength they would normally have expended over hours. Then there was a momentary silence while Reynolds drove at top speed towards the tunnel. Penn was the first to speak.
'I think it went into the wireless set.'
Barnes checked his communications and banged the microphone while he looked at Penn, who was examining the set. Then suspicion flooded into his mind and he scrambled up the turret, pushing the lid back and staring up into the clear morning sky. The clever bastards! They'd sent the Messerschmit
t down not hoping to hit anybody but to get him to close the turret. In this way his vision would be restricted and he wouldn't see what was coming next, but he could see it now coming from the east - an arrow-shaped formation of ugly, thick-legged birds - Stuka dive-bombers coming for Bert. He spoke into the mike, his voice dry and harsh, using his driver's name.
'Reynolds, we're going to be dive-bombed unless you get us into that tunnel first.'
He stayed in the turret to check the course the Stukas were taking, remembering that these were the planes which had battered Poland. He might well die in this war, he knew that, but not yet, not yet! He wanted to see Germany smashed first. With narrowed eyes he watched the tunnel draw closer as the Stukas came over at a bare thousand feet. Yes, he'd been right - they were coming for Bert. They'd change direction now and he waited for the first one to peel off, waited for the hair-raising shriek of those screaming bombs which would put fear into the dead.
'Lights on,' he ordered, automatically as Bert thundered towards the tunnel.
The first Stuka was peeling off now, falling sideways, ejecting black eggs from its belly. Barnes slammed down the lid, dropped to the turntable floor and rotated the periscope so that he saw the tunnel moving towards them.
