Tramp in Armour

by Colin Forbes

  The tank ground forward, moving away from the embankment in a wide semi-circle until Barnes had brought it into a position where it directly faced the arch, and now he could see that the field beyond was shrouded in mist, masking their approach from the Germans. Colburn gave up protesting and leaned far out as he guided Barnes forward every inch of the way, his gaze switching backwards and forwards between the incredibly narrow arch and the forward tracks. The ground was very uneven at this point and Barnes found it difficult to follow the Canadian's instructions precisely. He was close to the archway when Colburn called out urgently for him to halt: he was too far over to the right. He reversed some distance and changed his angle of direction a fraction, moving forward at a crawl, his eyes straining to see more clearly, forcing himself not to look at the wristwatch which was ticking away vital minutes. They must get through this time. The dark archway crept towards him and now the light beyond was stronger, illuminating the semi-circle clearly. It was almost daylight now. The front hull moved inside. Suddenly there was a jarring sound, the screech of steel grating along stonework. The tank shuddered violently through the length of its hull and then stopped abruptly as Barnes braked. Perhaps it was useless. This could be one obstacle they might never overcome, not even in broad daylight. He rolled back the hood and from above him a torch beam flashed along the wall.

  The vicious clash of steel against stone had frightened Colburn and now he tried to estimate the position by the light of his beam. They had driven into the left-hand wall, of course. In their anxiety not to repeat their earlier mistake they had erred too far in the opposite direction, but was the manoeuvre even possible? He flashed the torch on the other side and the light penetrated a gap between tank and wall, a gap no more than six inches wide, if that. So theoretically it was possible, but with such a narrow clearance they would be extraordinarily lucky to pass clear through the archway in this light. He called down direct to Barnes.

  'Six inches' clearance on the other side. Six inches maximum, maybe less.'

  'Then we can do it, providing nothing gives when I reverse.'

  'It'll take a miracle.'

  'Maybe we're entitled to one.'

  For the second time Barnes went into reverse, handling the controls with a concentration he had probably never equalled before, hearing the metal scraping harshly against the wall every inch of the way. But they were moving. The tearing sound petered out following the painful withdrawal, his heart in his mouth until he saw that they were clear of the imprisoning arch once more. They had to manage it this time. Colburn guided Barnes back a short distance and then gave no further instructions. The change of direction required was so fine that unless Barnes could feel what was needed they would end up smashing into the other wall.

  Gripping the rim he saw the arch corning towards him again, his torch shining on the right-hand side now to make sure that Barnes hadn't overdone it again. He ignored the other wall completely, knowing that if they could move through with the right-hand track barely scraping the wall they should be able to make it. So great was his concentration on the wall that Colburn nearly died at that moment. Just in time he remembered the solid stone arch coming towards his head: he dived down inside the turret and something brushed the crown of his head, and as he went down a fresh fear darted into his mind - would the turret go under the arch? He reached up a hand and felt his fingers graze stonework as the tank rumbled forward. They were almost through when their nerve ends were seared again as the familiar grinding noise started. The tank increased speed and they were out in the open, driving across the field in a weird early morning half-glow mingled with white mist.

  Barnes halted the tank briefly, switched off the engines, and stood up to listen. The vaporous fog bank was dispersing and beyond it he detected a staccato mutter which sounded like the power-drills of a tank repair shop, and beyond that he was damned sure he could hear the mechanical grumble of Panzers on the move. With a bit of luck these two background noises might help to conceal Bert's approach until the very last moment. And now he looked at his watch. 3.48 am. Twelve minutes to the Panzer attack.

  'The mist's clearing,' said Colburn quietly. 'I can just see the ammunition hangar. I'll stick it out up here until we get close and then I'll pop downstairs and observe through the periscope.'

  'If you don't, you'll be dead mutton.'

  'And I'll use the Besa when the time comes - machine guns are my forte. The mist's clearing rapidly. That hangar is dead ahead. Good luck, Barnes. Advance!'

  'Thanks for coming, Colburn. Thanks a lot.' It sounded trite, horribly trite, but he felt he must say something at this moment. Sitting down again, he closed the hood.

  The tank moved forward rapidly over the level ground, brushing mist trails aside, picking up more speed every second. Colburn felt chilled to the bone, scared stiff of what was coming, but he looked curiously at the high bank which rose immediately behind the rear of the hangar. The houses behind the ridge were a faint silhouette of rooftops in the early morning light. It was from this ridge that Barnes and Jacques had looked down on the airfield, from here they had seen the sinister huddles of tanks which comprised the armoured striking force of the Panzer division which General Storch was about to hurl against Dunkirk. Ahead he could see the outer defences of the tank laager, a screen of barbed wire hastily thrown up to cordon off the airfield, and as the pale glow of the coming day increased he saw beyond the hangar a score or more of low dark shapes. His heart thumped when he saw them. Heavy tanks of the 14th Panzer Division. The laager was in view.

  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 speak
ing 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.

  'Tank coming ... don't forget... close lid.'

  Looking sideways, he stared dazedly beyond the open doors of the hangar into the vast stockpile of shells and ammunition, his last sight before a German soldier hidden behind a pile of crates aimed his rifle and fired once, killing Colburn instantly. The machine-pistol fell and narrowly missed Barnes who was beginning to emerge from the hatch, his revolver in his hand. He looked quickly towards the corner where the huddle of Germans lay and then switched his gaze to the inside of,the hangar. His revolver jerked up and he fired twice. The German with the half-aimed rifle collapsed behind the crates. Jumping to the ground, Barnes ran round the back of the tank, climbed on to the hull, took a quick glance at Colburn and went down inside the turret. The Canadian who had just come over for die afternoon had been shot through the temple.

  Settling himself into the gunner's seat, he remembered that the two-pounder wasn't loaded. Cursing, he stood up, flopping in a fresh round with sufficient force to make the breech-block close, settled himself again and traversed the turret. Using the shoulder-grip, he elevated the barrel several degrees. The German tank came-up behind the cross-wires, crawling forward like a huge dark beetle, a silhouette he had seen so many times in the past battle-scarred fortnight.

  He squeezed the trigger and Bert shuddered under the spasm. The shot reached the target, the German tank stopped, flames flaring over the superstructure. Bert had just killed his first German tank. Barnes climbed back into the turret and looked at the plunger. It was extraordinarily quiet all of a sudden. Without thinking about it he gripped the handle firmly, paused, then pressed down.

  Nothing happened. He had forgotten the switch. He lifted his head above the rim and looked round the airfield. The burning tank was well ablaze now but he couldn't see any sign of Germans. Again without thinking about it he picked up the plunger-box and the spool of wire. Climbing down on to the hull, he closed the lid and dropped to the ground, paying out the wire which led back inside the gun slit. Peering round the corner of the hanger along the side they had come he saw no sign of life. He began to walk rapidly back under the hangar wall, paying out wire from the spool, going past the Germans Colburn had killed, past the tank transporter where an arc welding torch lay on the deck, still spitting out a spray of sparks. Feeding out the wire behind him close to the wall, he kept on walking like a robot, wondering whether the wire would last out.

  To his exhausted, pain-racked mind the act of forgetting to turn the switch had seemed a sign, a sign that he might just survive if he refused to give up. He reached the end of the hanger and found that the area between the rear wall and the high bank was deserted. Still paying out wire, he crossed the concrete strip and began to climb the slope, the same slope from which he had looked down on the airfield with Jacques before they had made a detour round the airfield to the point where Barnes had seen inside the open hangar mouth with his field-glasses. He had almost reached the top of the slope when he heard trucks arriving on the concrete strip below him. He flopped on the slope, still holding the box, and lay perfectly still, his head turned sideways. Soldi
ers were spilling out of the trucks and forming up into two sections, then one section made its way down one side of the hangar while the second section followed the officer along the other side. Barnes climbed over the top of the ridge and staggered down inside a huge bomb crater close to the houses. Sitting down on the floor he looked at his watch, Colburn's watch, stared up at the pale sky he might never see again, turned the switch and pressed the plunger. At 3.58 am the world blew apart.

  The initial explosion came in two shock waves which blew away from Lemont straight across the laagar - the detonation of the tank-bomb followed almost at once by the subsequent blowing of the immense dump, which was then succeeded by fire which created a chain reaction of exploding ammunition. The first two shock waves swept over the laager like a tidal wave of destruction, caving in the tank walls like paper. Beyond the laager the shock waves smashed in the walls of the farm which housed German headquarters, and when Meyer, blood streaming from his forehead, staggered into his general's office he found Storch lying across the floor, his skull crushed under a rafter which had fallen from the ceiling, one clawed hand stretched out towards the telephone which lay in a heap of plaster. Reaching down for the phone, Meyer sank to his knees, picked up the receiver and found that the field telephone had survived. He asked for Keller. He knew exactly what he must do - he must retrieve the situation from the disaster he had always feared since that day so long ago when they had crossed the Sedan pontoons. He had already heard the report that British tanks were moving up through Lemont to attack their rear and a column had been dispatched to intercept them without success. What Meyer had dreaded had now happened - the enemy had counter-attacked. The tremendous explosion which had just killed Storch was the final confirmation : there were no enemy planes reported so the British must have heavy artillery which had blown up the dump. He heard a voice speaking and broke in.