Tramp in Armour

by Colin Forbes

  'General Goering is on time again and I see he has the sky to himself. When Mr Churchill opened the cupboard this morning he must have found his shelves bare.'

  'We mustn't count on air immunity any longer,' said Meyer sharply. 'After all, we can actually see England from here.'

  Storch tightened his lips at this sign of caution. 'I want a very detailed report about your conversation with, this Fascist. He says this road will be covered by only a few inches of water - sufficient to conceal its existence but not enough to prevent the passage of the Panzers. Since he is a local he may well know what he is talking about.'

  'I'd better go now.'

  But Meyer did not go immediately because his sharp ears had heard a fresh sound in the sky, an engine sound different from that of Goering's huge aerial fleet. Whipping up his glasses he focused them towards the west while beside him Storch also stood with his binoculars aimed upwards. High above the Channel, at an altitude much greater than the Luftwaffe bombers, several squadrons of RAF fighters flew steadily on course, heading for an invisible point which would take them over the heart of the oncoming bombers, although from the ground it seemed that the two air fleets were advancing on a collision course. Less than a minute later the RAF formations dived to the attack, roaring down like avenging hornets on the massed planes below, weaving in and out of the pattern of bombers which was now becoming disorganized as the pilots forgot their objectives and desperately began to take evading action. In less than two minutes the huge German air armada was flying in all directions, its attack formation completely shattered. One bomber spiralled to the ground and crashed into the fields a mile away, to be followed by a second, but this one was heading for the coast close to where Storch and Meyer stood. As one man they dropped flat behind the hull of a nearby tank only seconds before the bomber hit the earth three hundred yards away, its bomb load exploding a few seconds after the moment of impact. The vibrations of the shock wave rattled the tank behind which they sheltered and a shower of soil rained down on Storch's neck and shoulders. Meyer spoke quietly.

  'Mr Churchill must have found something at the bottom of his cupboard.'

  * * *

  'Driver, halt! There's a parachute coming down,' Barnes warned.

  The air battle had raged over their heads, out of sight, for several minutes - out of sight even though the sky was cloudless because the planes were high and against the glare of the early afternoon sun. From the noise it sounded as though several machines were wheeling and diving as they fought each other to death in the sunlight. The engine sounds had come closer and faintly he had heard the stutter of machine guns but they went on manoeuvring in front of the sun so that he had found it impossible to locate them until he had heard the ominous sound of a plane plunging into a tremendous power dive. Then he had located a small dark shape spinning earthwards a long way to the west, much too far off to identify its nationality quite apart from the fantastic speed at which it approached the ground. It vanished and he heard a distant cough. Petrol tank gone. A thread of black smoke crept up from the horizon. Overhead the sky was full of warm silence. He gave the order to advance, reversing that order almost at once as he saw the tiny inverted cone of the single parachute floating down. He waited.

  While he waited he thought about Penn. Since noon they had passed through three abandoned villages, and when he had halted the tank and walked through their deserted streets he had in each place found a house with the tantalizing word Medecin on a door-plate, but there had been no one behind the doors. Inside the third village they had stopped briefly for a quick meal from the Mandels' food parcel but Penn hadn't shared the meal because he appeared to have fallen into a state of unconsciousness. Alarmed, Barnes had checked his pulse but the beat was steady. When he felt his forehead it was hot and damp, and now everything in Barnes' mind was dominated by his new priority - finding a doctor. They were within four miles of the next village before the air battle going on overhead had attracted his attention as he halted the tank to attend to a call of nature. Reynolds twisted his head above the hatch to follow the course of the cone as it grew larger and larger drifting straight for them across the deserted fields. He called up from the hatch.

  'Ours or theirs?'

  'No idea.'

  It was a good question, a vital question, in fact. The last thing they could cope with at the present was a Luftwaffe pilot as a prisoner. But if he had seen them and they let him go free it might be less than an hour before German headquarters in Cambrai knew of the presence of a British tank prowling behind their lines. As he watched the parachutist drift lower Barnes swore to himself. He had already shot one German for mercy reasons beside the wrecked infantry truck, but the idea of shooting one down in cold blood for their own protection was rather a different business. Maybe he'll open fire on me, Barnes told himself. If he does I'll let him have half the magazine. There was, of course, just the chance that the pilot wouldn't see them. The parachute was drifting lower and lower - and closer - the tiny figure underneath pulling at cords to guide himself, bobbing about so erratically that Barnes found it impossible to focus the glasses on him. Reynolds called up from the hatch.

  'What if it is a Jerry?'

  'Then we'll have a problem on our hands.'

  'I'd shoot the bastard. He's probably just back from machine-gunning one of those refugee columns.'

  Barnes was surprised. It was the first time that Reynolds had ever expressed an opinion without being asked for one. His burnt arms must be playing him up badly. Reaching down, he picked up the machine-pistol and tucked it under his arm. There was no hope now that the parachutist might not see them - as he drifted close to the earth he was floating nearer and nearer to the tank. From that height and distance he couldn't possibly miss seeing them. Climbing down from the turret he stood on the hull so that he could see the exact landing point. The parachutist was now tugging frantically at the cords so that the cone which had been almost overhead was floating away from them along the country road. He jumped down off the hull.

  'I can follow him in the tank,' offered Reynolds.

  'No, I'll investigate this blighter myself - get another machine-pistol out of the turret and wait here.'

  'Watch yourself, Sergeant. Don't forget Seft.'

  That was the trouble at the moment, Barnes thought. We're in a general state of jitters. Apart from the Mandel farm, which had been a brief oasis of peace in a nightmare world, ever since they had arrived at Fontaine they had met either the enemy in the form of Panzers or treachery in the form of Lebrun; in the case of Seft the enemy and treachery had combined into one menace. So what was he going to encounter now? Let him give me just one reason, just one small reason, and I'll press the trigger.

  He was running along the dusty road when the pilot landed in the field close to the verge, the parachute billowing as it dragged its owner across the grass. The cloth cone collapsed slowly. Barnes ran faster. He wanted to get there before the pilot disentangled himself from the cords, but as he came closer the man released himself from the parachute and climbed to his knees, facing Barnes who ran up with the machine-pistol thrust forward. Were pilots armed? He didn't think so but he wasn't taking any chances. The kneeling figure saw the gun and stayed on his knees, throwing bis arms wide to show that he was unarmed. The next second will tell, Barnes thought grimly, and then the man spoke.

  '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.'

  He waited for the Canadian's reaction, but still nothing had changed in the steady expression. Even the voice was mild when he retaliated.

  'I suppose if I were to hit you in the mouth for that, Sergeant, your pal in the tank would gun me down?'

  'I'm sure he would. Don't let me get under your skin, Colburn. It's just that I have to be sure.'

  'Sure of what? I thought you'd have realized by now that I was taking off from Manston half an hour ago.'

  'I have to be sure you won't get in the way. You're a Canadian, you say, yet you're in the RAF.'

  'I volunteered. It was very hot weather at the time and the heat can make you do silly things...'

  'What were you in civvy street, Colburn?'

  'I took my medical degree and then...'

  'You're a doctor?' Barnes didn't attempt to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

  'No, I'm not. I never practised. I found I didn't like it so I became a chemist.'

  'A chemist?' Barnes found it difficult to visualize Colburn behind a counter handing out aspirin.

  'An industrial chemist. I developed an interest in high-explosives and had my own outfit after a few years. We supplied stuff for quarry-blasting operations all over Canada. So now you'll know how crazy I was to vo
lunteer.'

  'You had your own business and you gave it up?' Barnes stared even more closely at Colburn's sun-tanned features, wondering what made a man throw up everything to travel three thousand miles to fight someone else's war. His decision was crystallizing rapidly now.

  'No, it wasn't as bad as that. I handed over to my brother and he's running things till I get back.' Colburn smiled faintly. 'Ed doesn't see any reason why the British shouldn't be left to fight their own wars. He could be right at that. Sergeant, what made you jump half a mile when I said I'd taken my medical degree?'

  'My corporal's seriously wounded and I've been praying to run into a doctor for hours. Would you take a look at him for me?'