by Colin Forbes
As soon as he had spoken he felt that he had gone too far, but having spoken he was determined not to back down and he prepared to defend himself. In any case, if things did go wrong this might well be a useful conversation to repeat at a military court of inquiry. The general did not reply immediately. Instead, he turned his head sideways, cocking his ear as though listening to something almost beyond the range of human hearing. Storch did have exceptional hearing powers and he attributed these to his total abstinence. Looking up, squinting against the sun's glare, Meyer had a view of Storch's profile now - an arrogant curve of nose, the thin wide mouth, the sharply pointed jaw-line.
'It sounds like bombing,' the general commented. 'Our Stukas must be taking out the next town. So, you think we ought to stop here do you, Meyer?'
'Or withdraw to a less-exposed...'
'May I remind you, Colonel Meyer,' Storch paused, still listening, 'that this Panzer division is under my command, and I, in turn, am responsible to the Corps Commander, General Guderian*, who takes his instructions from General von Rundstedt?'
* General Guderian, who had carefully studied General de Gaulle's work, 'The Army of the Future', was chiefly responsible for the development of the Panzer divisions. Guderian later took the armoured host to the southern approaches of Moscow.
Meyer was appalled. What on earth was coming? Surely Storch was not contemplating sending him back to base? He stood stiffly as the awful realization of his tactical error dawned on him. For Storch could easily interpret what had just been said as faint-heartedness in the face of the enemy. Meyer said nothing as Storch continued in the same silky tone.
'And may I also remind you of General Guderian's orders that the Panzers are to be let off the leash - to push forward as far and as fast as they can while their petrol lasts out?'
For the first time the general looked down at his GSO as he pulled down his earphones in position, listened, and then lifted them again. His voice was harsher now.
'It may interest you to know that the spotter plane has located and identified the obstacles in our path - two French farm carts. I don't imagine, Colonel Meyer, that we should allow ourselves to be troubled by such opponents.' He stood up in his turret, erect as a ramrod. 'Meyer, please return to your tank - the advance will continue in the general direction of Amiens.'
Barnes sensed that something was wrong, that this was no normal waking, so he resisted the temptation to open his eyes immediately. He listened. His mind felt muddled and he was vaguely aware that he had been dreaming, dreaming something unpleasant, something to do with the war, but it had receded from his realms of consciousness. He always woke up quickly and now he pushed the dream, the nightmare, away, struggling to grasp where he was.
Where the hell was he? It was very quiet inside the building and he was lying stretched out on his back staring up at a beamed and raftered ceiling far above his head, alarm gripping him as memory surged back. The Blenheims, the long smoke line, the ammunition train, the terrible explosion, a feeling of something tearing into his right shoulder, then oblivion. Still lying on the blanket, his fingers reached up and explored the shoulder, contacting a thick dressing, sticky plaster. Yes, they'd got him, all right. But where was he now - and where were Penn and Reynolds?
He tried to sit up on the blanket and flopped back as a wave of dizziness rolled over him. His head was aching horribly and he felt weak and washed-out, hardly able to concentrate.
Under the dressing his shoulder throbbed and at the pit of his stomach was a sensation of sickness. Tentatively, still lying down, he tested his legs by crooking them at the knee; first the right knee, then the left. They seemed to be in one piece. Now for the arms. He worked them round over the blanket, clenching and unclenching his fingers. As far as he could tell his main handicap was an appalling weakness which had reduced his normally wiry frame to the consistency of a jelly. Turning his head to one side, he saw his boots standing a few feet away, placed neatly together, the toecaps gleaming like black glass. He knew they were his own boots because he recognized a tiny scratch on one toecap, and the sight of these boots heartened him because they had recently been cleaned with great care, which meant that Reynolds must have cleaned them. To take the weight off his shoulder, he moved his body over sideways, lifting his head to examine his quarters. He was inside some kind of outbuilding, probably part of a farm. Yes, in the far corner he could see an old plough and beside it some of their Army kit - a dixie supported on an improvised tripod, suspended over the ashes of a fire, and two enamel mugs. Then he saw something standing against the wall which gave him a bad turn. A German machine-pistol with the magazine protruding below the barrel, its strap coiled in a neat loop.
He tried to stand up to reach the loaded weapon but his legs gave way, so he crawled from under the blanket over his body and wobbled his way across the wooden floor on his knees, naked from the waist upwards. He collapsed as he reached the weapon. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself up on to his knees again, grabbed the pistol by its long barrel and then crawled back to his blankets. Sitting up, he began to examine the machine-pistol, extracting the magazine before he fiddled with the firing mechanism. As he found out how the gun worked it came back to him. Someone had attended to his wound, a man with red cheeks and a bushy white moustache. The same man had given him an injection, he could remember the prick of the needle in his right arm, and later the stranger had come back to re-dress his wound. He could remember that very clearly because he had resented being woken up. But how long had they been inside this place? Six hours? Twelve hours? He looked at his watch and the face was cracked, the hands stopped at 7.45. That would be about the time when the ammunition train blew up. Through a window high up in the wall he could see that it was broad daylight, another glorious day with the sky blue and hot. It must be Sunday morning or afternoon, Sunday May 19th. Then he heard someone coming. Re-inserting the magazine, he pulled a blanket up over him and sat still, the gun concealed under the blanket, his left hand under the barrel, his right hand round the trigger guard.
Two men walked in through the huge door at the far end of the building. Penn and a stranger, a lad no older than eighteen, who wore a blue denim jacket and trousers, bis shirt open at the front. He looked the picture of health, tall, well-built, his manner radiating an air of vitality. His fair hair was combed neatly back over his head and his blue eyes looked down at Barnes with curiosity. Penn looked surprised as they stopped near his bedside.
'You're awake, Sergeant.'
'What did you expect to find - a corpse? Who's this?'
'This is Pierre. He speaks English. Pierre, meet Sergeant Barnes.'
'I am happy to meet you, Sergeant.'
The lad bent down and to Barnes' embarrassment he solemnly shook hands. Then he stood up and waited without saying a word.
'Where's Reynolds?' demanded Barnes.
'He's on guard outside.'
'Guarding Bert, you mean?'
'Yes, Bert's in the next shed. Don't worry - he's well out of sight.'
'And what does that mean - why should I worry?'
'How are you feeling?' Penn inquired. 'You've had...'
'Well enough to wonder what the devil is going on. How long have we been in this place, Penn?'
'You've had concussion. When the Jerry fighter dived at us you caught a bullet in the shoulder and banged your head a fourpenny one on the turret.'
'I can remember that,' Barnes snapped irritably. 'Do get to the point and answer my question. How long have we been here?'
Tour days.'
The answer hit Barnes like a thunderclap. For once in his life he was speechless as the implications of Penn's statement raced through his brain. Where was the troop? Come to that, where was the BEF? Sitting up was making the throbbing of his shoulder wound worse: he would have loved to lie down again but that was out of the question. He blinked away the muzziness of his vision as Penn spoke again.
'You'd better listen to what Pierre has to say - he knows mo
re about it than I do.'
Barnes looked up at the lad, his voice polite but firm.
'Pierre, would you mind going outside and staying with Trooper Reynolds for a few minutes?'
He saw Pierre's face drop and Penn frowned. When the lad had gone out and shut the door Penn protested.
'I wish you hadn't done that - we may need him. You don't know the position here.'
'And I won't until you tell me.' Barnes dropped the blanket and laid the machine-pistol on its side.
'What did you want that for?' asked Penn.
'I'd no idea what was happening when I woke up - a couple of Jerries might have walked through that door. Now, what's the position?'
Penn paused and then burst out with it. 'We're a helluva long way behind the German lines. Maybe twenty miles or more.'
'We can't be...'
'The Germans have broken through along the whole front. They've torn a tremendous gap in the lines and it's a bloody great mess - just how great it's hard to tell because there are so many rumours...'
'It could be a rumour that they've broken through, then.'
'No chance of that - I heard this morning that the Panzers have reached Arras. The Luftwaffe has the whole show to itself - our lot and the French Air Force were shot out of the sky in the first few days. The Germans have hundreds of tanks and thousands of planes. You've got to face it - we're miles and miles behind the German lines.'
'Today is Thursday, then?'
'Yes, Thursday, May the twenty-third.'
'And where exactly are we?'
'Just outside a place called Fontaine. We're fairly close to the French frontier.'
'What?'
For the second time in five minutes Barnes was staggered, but this time he simply stared at bis corporal grimly as he climbed to his feet. He felt his legs giving way at once, but sheer will-power stiffened the nagging muscles. Leaning a hand against the nearby wall, feeling the sweat trickling down his back with the effort of staying upright, he smiled wintrily.
'Penn, if I haven't gone potty I seem to recall that when the ammo train went up we were a good forty miles from the French frontier.'
Penn's moustache quivered and then his sense of humour got the upper hand and he spoke lightly.
'Sergeant Barnes, you have been away from this wonderful world of ours for four days - in other words you've been out cold, so it was up to me to see you home safe and sound, if you can call this home, although personally I've known better ones. Supposing you just let me tell you what's happened and then you'll feel a lot happier. You won't,' he added with a grin, 'but you know I always phrase things in the most tactful way.'
'The floor is yours.'
'When the train blew up we were attacked by a Messerschmitt and you collected one in the shoulder. You managed to smash your head good and hard at the same time. On the way down you did get the lid shut and that's why I'm talking to you now -I heard half a beltful of bullets rattling on the turret before Jerry pushed off. When I checked the state of your health you were dead to the world and bleeding like a stuck pig, but I managed to get a dressing on.' He took a deep exaggerated breath to illustrate the drama of it all. 'For the next few hours, till well after dark, we were dodging Jerries. It was a sheer fluke that we got away with it - mostly by driving across open country. Eventually, hours later, we ended up here and here we've been ever since.'
'You drove through the night?'
'Yes, there was a moon which helped, considering we daren't use the headlights. When we got here I hadn't the slightest idea where we were. And before you blow my head off about that, you can't read a map at night when you're travelling across country, keeping an eye open for Jerry, and popping down to see whether your tank commander is still in the land of the living. At least,' he ended with a grin, 'I can't.'
'You did damn well, Penn. Thanks. What made you stay in this place?'
'I found a Belgian doctor who was willing to look after you without letting anyone know we were here. These buildings are outside Fontaine and the village still don't know about us. The doctor's a nice old boy called Lepin and the last time he called he said it was just a matter of changing your dressing and waiting till you came round. I doubt if he'll be back again - he could be shot by the Germans for treating you. The main thing is we haven't been spotted yet...'
'Pierre has spotted us.'
'I'll come to him in a minute. How are you doing?'
While they had been talking Barnes was testing himself, walking slowly round the floor and keeping close to the wall as he forced his reluctant legs forward. The wound was thumping him good and proper how but the dizziness was receding.
'Fine,' he said quickly. 'Go on.'
'Lepin was a godsend. You probably don't remember it -and that's your good luck - but while you were drugged he took out the bullet. He said you'd need at least ten days' rest -that's a week starting from yesterday.'
'Arras - where did you get that news about Arras?'
'It came through on the radio bulletin. I go into Fontaine once a day to listen in. Lepin's house backs on to a field and he leaves the wireless set in a shed for me.'
'The French radio may not be reliable.'
'I'm talking about the BBC.'
- A chill ran down Barnes' spine. Arras was halfway to the sea. He still found it difficult to grasp the extent of the catastrophe and he still held on to the hope that the reports were wildly exaggerated.
'We must have some idea of how far behind the German lines we are,' he said sharply.
'I've no idea at all.'
Barnes paused to hold himself up against the wall. 'Look, Penn, there must be a front line somewhere. Don't the radio bulletins give any indication at all?'
'Sergeant, you still haven't grasped it. The French to the south of Etreux took an awful bashing. The whole weight of the German armour was thrown against them from what I can make out, and there isn't a front line down here any more. Everything's all over the place. Jerry has torn a bloody great gap in the line and it's getting bigger every day. And the BEF is a long way west of Brussels now.'
'There are no Germans in Fontaine?'
'Not up to this morning. A column of tanks went through two days ago but that's the way they seem to be operating -they didn't leave a single soldier behind.'
Barnes found that interesting. He thought about it while he picked up his clothes and started dressing with difficulty. At least he was still wearing his battledress trousers so he wouldn't have to struggle with them. Then he resumed his cross-examination.
'The tank's next door, you said. In what condition?'
'Engines are in full working order. The Besa's OK. So is the two-pounder. The Wireless is still US but the intercom's OK. We can talk to each other but we're cut off from the outside world. Reynolds and I have spent most of our time on maintenance while you were playing Rip Van Winkle.'
'One thing bothers me, Penn. This lad, Pierre. How does he come into the picture?'
'He's helped us enormously. He saw us coming into this place when we first arrived and he's been around ever since.
He knew we were here so I thought the best thing was to make friends with him - and the fact that he speaks English as well as his native French is a godsend...'
'He's Belgian?'
'Yes, his parents come from the north and he's lost touch with them. He was visiting an uncle in Fontaine when the war started.'
Barnes asked a lot more questions while he finished dressing and among other things he learnt that it was now two o'clock in the afternoon. At the end of the conversation he returned to the subject of Pierre.
, 'You said he was visiting an uncle here when the war started - you mean way back in September last year?'
'No, I meant when the Germans attacked Belgium a fortnight ago. I still say Pierre could be useful. We both know a little French but if we're going to get out of this we'll need someone who can talk to the locals, and he's as keen as mustard to come with us. How the hell will we know
where we are if...'
'Bring him in to me.'
Barnes picked up the machine-pistol, extracted the magazine again and began testing the mechanism.
'Pierre brought that...' began Penn. '
'I said send him in.'
Barnes went on riddling with the gun after Penn had brought in Pierre and he kept him waiting while he went on examining the weapon. He was looking down at the gun when he fired his question at Pierre.
'Where did you get hold of this?'
'I found it on the road outside Fontaine. I saw a car stop and the driver threw it into the ditch. Then he drove away very fast. It is in good order, Sergeant Barnes.' He pronounced it 'Burns'. 'I tested it myself. After first taking out the magazine,' he added proudly.
