Tramp in Armour (19 page)

The scream of another plane starting its dive commenced, a plane which sounded to be directly overhead, the scream rising to a crescendo as it came down as though the machine were out of control, a scream which sent cold water down Barnes' spine. Then the explosions came, heart-shaking crumps landing all round them, pinpointing Bert's position. Between explosions
he heard another distant sound, a heavy thump. One of the remaining walls had gone. At least he had taken them clear of those insidious hanging walls. Barnes was well aware that the majority of casualties during an air raid on a built-up area are caused by the inhabitants being buried under collapsing masonry. He glanced at Penn to see how the corporal was standing up to the bombardment and Penn looked back, deliberately quivering the ends of his moustache in mock terror.

Mock terror? Penn's nerves were shuddering like plucked violin strings. Another bomb exploded almost on top of them and the tank rattled like a toy under the impact, fitments coming loose and falling on to the turntable. Bombing is a grim experience wherever the recipients may be hiding, but it is particularly grim for those inside a tank. Penn had an awful sensation of being exposed: the brick wall of a building may give as little protection as the 40-mm steel which protects the lower sides of a tank, but inside a building there
feels
to be more protection, and locked inside the Matilda the assault on the eardrums was tremendous. As Penn sat tensely the sound of the explosions seemed to slice clean through the metal skin, but once inside the hull the cannonade reverberated from wall to wall as though a ten-ton hammer were beating on the plates, setting up vibrations which shook him to the guts. While the raid proceeded he struggled to put his mind into cold storage^ as he had on the bridge when the Panzers were moving past, but now the method didn't work. He had decided to count up to a hundred explosions, telling himself that long before he reached that figure the raid would be over, but already he had lost count and he gave it up, living now from one explosion to the next.

In the nose of the tank, locked away from the other two men, Reynolds sat huddled forward, his hands still gripping the steering levers, his brain dazed with fear. It wasn't so much the thought of a direct hit which frightened him, because if that happened there would be nothing to worry about. Instead, Reynolds was desperately trying to forget a technical factor in the construction of Bert - the four six-volt batteries
which were housed in the nose of the tank. And above all else Reynolds had a gibbering horror of being blinded. He was well aware that even a near-miss could deal the hull such a shattering blow that those batteries might burst - spilling sulphuric acid all over his face and hands. He sat there silently, waiting for the next one, cursing the man who had designed the Matilda for exposing him to this terrible hazard. Miss us or kill us, he prayed, gripping his hands even tighter as they slipped wetly on the levers. Here it comes, right in front of me. Oh God, no! The explosion battered the nose and he heard debris spatter the armoured glass beyond the slit window, then he realized he was all right this time. He still sat with his head down, facing his lap, his eyes tightly closed.

'So far, so good,' said Barnes, repeating Penn's joke.

'Yes.'

Penn spat out the word, wondering how much longer it was
going to last, his imagination working at a feverish pitch as he
saw so clearly what was coming - the bomb which was a direct
hit. The hull would rip open, letting inside the monstrous gases
which are the product of high-explosion, tearing their flesh apart, disintegrating the three men and scattering their pulped
relics across the rubble. No one would ever know what had
happened to them: they would simply disappear. 'Reported
missing in action...' My God, he thought, my poor people. I
was just going to write to them the day we moved across the
frontier. That was how many days ago? He couldn't work it
out and he didn't even try to any longer as the next stick came down, straddling the tank so that for a few agonizing seconds
three men were convinced that they were on the verge of
death.

The raid lasted fifteen minutes and during that time they were bombed almost non-stop. After a short pause they endured a series of near-misses which terrorized poor Reynolds very close to breaking-point: it was probably only the unseen presence of Barnes just beyond the plate behind him that saved the driver from opening the hatch and climbing out to escape those dreaded batteries. He had reached the stage where he was quite prepared to take bis chance out in the open. Then the second pause came, a pause which went on and on while they waited for the bombardment to start again. It was Barnes who recovered first, climbing up into the turret and cautiously raising the lid, starting to cough as soon as he had poked his head up into the dust-laden air, feeling the heat of the sun on the back of his neck. The turret rim was hot to the touch.

Many of the hanging walls were no longer there and over the whole area was suspended a pall of dust, a pall so dense that the sun was a blurred disc. He looked down and saw that the hull was coated with a film of dust as though Bert had been camouflaged to operate across a grey desert, and when he stepped down on the hull his foot slipped and he almost banged his knee again. He told both of them to get out of the tank and join him where they could breathe in the dust for themselves, but at least they were out in the open, outside the claustrophobic confines of what had so nearly become a metal coffin.

The tank stood inside an old square in the western, less-ruined sector of the town while its crew waited for the unknown intruder to make his appearance, the first sound of life they had met since entering the
devastated town. The square was enclosed by hanging walls and the weird tomb-like atmosphere seemed to grow as they waited, Reynolds still in his driver's seat, Penn standing in the turret grasping a machine-pistol, while Barnes stood next to a corner of the square with his back to a wall. Instinctively, he did not lean against it and be held the revolver across his chest so that the muzzle was aimed at the corner.

Little more than ten minutes after they had stopped inside the square for Reynolds to check the tank, Barnes' acute hearing had detected the sounds, odd rustling sounds as though the approaching feet were scuffling furtively through rubble. The footsteps were very close now, moving more quickly. Barnes elevated his gun and at the same moment Penn aimed his machine-pistol. A man came round the corner and stopped abruptly.

Over his shoulder he carried a limp sack and for an instant his bony face expressed extreme fear, but he recovered quickly, removing a cap from his head and smiling unctuously. Small and lean, he was dressed strangely, his suit old and shabby, but round his neck he wore an expensive silk tie and Barnes caught a glimpse of a gold wristwatch before he wriggled his sleeve. His feet were encased in a pair of brand new crocodile shoes. Barnes spoke quietly.

'Sorry we frightened you, but can you tell us the name of this place?'

'British soldiers, yes?'

He was still smiling in a forced way and he had begun to step away from Barnes, shooting a quick glance at the tank as though he expected it to advance on him at any moment. Barnes tried again.

'We're British soldiers. There's nothing to worry about - we
won't hurt you. But I would like to know the name of this
place.'

He began jabbering away in French, speaking at a tremendous rate, so quickly that neither Barnes nor Penn could understand what he was saying, and as he went on talking he retreated step by step. He was close to the next corner when he lifted a hand and gestured furiously in the direction the tank had come from, waving his cap and then replacing it on his head. Barnes was walking slowly towards the tank when the man with the sack scuttled round the corner out of sight. Penn looked puzzled and sounded irritable when Barnes reached the tank.

'Why didn't you grab him? He could have told us...'

'Quick, Penn - give me that machine-pistol.'

'What

'Hurry it up, man.'

'Here ... what's the big idea?'

'Both of you wait. If you hear me using this thing get a move on - but come with Bert.'

He ran to the corner, peering round just in tune to see the man leave the road as he scrambled over a heap of rubble in the distance. He followed him, running lightly on the balls of his feet and holding the machine-pistol across his chest. The man had vanished behind the wall of a building and when he reached the point where he had scrambled over the rubble he was vanishing again behind the stunted relic of a house, still without a backward glance. Barnes slowed down as he approached the house, and now he held the machine-pistol under his arm ready for instant use as he peered round the end wall, quite unprepared for what he saw.

Beyond the house was a road comparatively free of debris and standing in the road was a single-decker bus, its sides covered with dust. Four people stood outside the bus and they appeared to be arguing. The bus was empty of passengers but its interior was crammed with a motley collection of goods, and beyond the open door he saw a seat piled high with miscellaneous articles. Bottles of wine, their necks protruding from a wicker basket, some red material which might be curtains or a bedspread, an up-ended silver tray, the upper half of a small chair with a brocaded back, and an old hunting rifle with a silver-plated stock. The quartet which stood arguing were almost as strange a collection as the contents of their bus.

The bony-faced man stood on one side, putting in a word
every now and again, while the other three men formed a circle, facing each other as they talked. The leader of the group appeared to be a short squat man with a swarthy
complexion and a large black moustache. He wore a crumpled business suit, a dark slouch hat
pushed well back over his head,
and round his neck was tied a coloured handkerchief. Barnes was reminded of a Corsican he had once met in a bar at Port Said when his troopship stopped there on the way home from
India. The other two men were very thin and tall and they
seemed to defer to the swarthy individual when the argument
became too heated; they were dressed in blue denim jackets and trousers and wore black berets pulled tightly over their
heads. Barnes walked out from behind the wall, his machine-
pistol aimed at the group, his voice harsh.

'What the devil's going on here?'

Three bodies spun round to face him, then froze. The Corsican was the first to recover and he came forward a few paces, smiling as he said something in French.

'Talk in English,' snapped Barnes.

The Corsican made a show of not understanding. Jabbing forward his pistol, Barnes rasped out the words.

'Get your hands up or I'll cut you to pieces.'

The Corsican shot up his hands, saying something quickly
over his shoulder, and three more pairs of hands jumped above shoulder level.

'I'm glad you speak English,' Barnes commented. 'Who are
you? Come on - be quick about it.'

'Joseph Lebrun, sir. Fur salesman from Le Cateau.'

'What's the name of this place?'

'Beaucaire, sir. You are the British Army?'

'The advance guard. That road which comes into the town
from the west - where does it lead to?'

'To Cambrai. Arras is beyond.'

God, Barnes was thinking, we're miles farther south than I'd thought. He stepped back several paces because Lebrun
was showing a tendency to edge closer. He kept his voice crisp
and hard.

'Stay where you are. Lebrun, how close are the Germans?'

'They have gone.' Lebrun looked astonished. 'They passed
through here several days ago soon after the first bombing...'

'Soldiers in trucks, you mean?'

'No nothing like that. It was a long column of huge tanks,
enormous guns.'

'But no soldiers in trucks?' Barnes repeated.

'No, nothing like that.' He stared at the machine-pistol,
frowning. 'That is a German gun?'

He's quick, this one, Barnes warned himself, and probably
treacherous. He kept the pistol aimed at Lebrun's stomach as
he pressed home his cross-examination.

'How long ago was this? You said several days ago - exactly
how many days?'