And southwards might even be safer from those tanks, too ...
The main road, with the refugees on it, would give him his bearings, anyway. But the important thing was to keep moving steadily at the trot, preferably with something solid between himself— dead ground would do best, but any cover was better than none—between himself and all those Germans —
All those Germans didn't bear thinking about when one was running away from them. And, of course, that was why there had been no one along the route they had innocently and accidentally taken to get to Belléme. Because no one, positively no one, would wait about, milking cows or ploughing fields or preparing supper, right in the path of an army about to advance.
No civilians, that was —
No one, in fact, except the French Army whose job it was to stop the Germans.
But where was that army?
He settled down to another steady run, along the flank of a convenient fold in the ground, and could stop himself trying to think that one out as he ran.
There was still noise and smoke away ahead, to the left, in what must still be the direction of Belléme. But those Germans in the fields hadn't been heading-or-pointed-in that dummy4
direction, so they were obviously set to outflank or by-pass that hot-spot, with its regular Mendips and their anti-tank guns. So where were they heading for?
With a growing sense of military inadequacy, he began to realize that in so far as he had tried to imagine the Real War he had envisaged a war of trenches and barbed-wire, and great massed offensives—a war of lines and no-man's-land.
He was in in a no-man's-land now, of a sort. But there was nothing to see, just empty farmland.
A sudden roar blotted out nothing, and two German fighter planes, their black crosses plain to see, snarled low across the empty landscape ahead of him—so low that they seemed to skim below the skyline of the ridge. Bastable flung himself flat and hugged the bare earth, cursing his respirator and webbing pouches which prevented him from flattening himself absolutely against the ground as more planes roared directly over him. And more—and heavier ones, by the thunder of their engines, which concussed his eardrums. It seemed to him impossible that they wouldn't spot him, lying there on the open hillside.
But they wouldn't stop for one man, they would surely have other, much bigger and more important targets than Captain Bastable.
And they would probably think he was dead, anyway. He was lying as still as death.
Then they were gone, not as quickly as they had come, but dummy4
droning away more slowly... But gone: nevertheless—he felt he had almost willed them on towards wherever they were going.
Only now there was another noise—a far more frightening and terrible noise which he recognized from way back: the clank and screech and roar of metal tracks. And it was coming towards him, the noise.
God! He could lie there, where he was, then they too just might take him for dead, as the pilots had done, and leave him. Or they might simply roll over him to make sure, saving bullets—no trouble at all, just one more squashed Tommy.
Or he could rise up on his knees and raise his hands in surrender. And because he'd at least given them a good run for their money, if they were sportsmen they might just take him prisoner —
The noise of the tracks was very close now, very loud, almost on top of him.
It stopped beside him.
'Is the poor bugger dead?' said a rich West country voice.
'Naow! 'E's shammin'—I just seen 'im twitch. Get oop, mate!'
Bastable was aleady getting up before he received the order.
"E's an orficer!' exclaimed the second voice.
Bren carrier—of course, that was why the sound had been so recognizable! Bastable cursed himself, his stupidity, his cowardice; yet at the same time he wanted to embrace the machine and to kiss it, and its crew, out of sheer love and dummy4
gratitude.
And with the Mendips' divisional sign on it, too!
'Bastable—captain, Prince Regent's Own,' said Bastable quickly with what shred of dignity he could find among the rags he had left. 'You're Mendips—from Belléme?'
'I didn't say 'oo we was.' The carrier sergeant whipped out a revolver and pointed at Bastable. 'And I didn't ask 'oo you was, neither.'
'Bastable, Sergeant.' The revolver bewildered Bastable. 'From the Prince Regent's Own South Downs Fusiliers—at Colembert.'
'That's them Terriers down south, sarge,' said the driver familiarly. 'That funny lot wot don't belong to no one, an'
shouldn't be there—you remember!'
'I also remember there's a lot of dodgy boogers around 'oo ain't so funny, Darkie,' said the Sergeant. 'An' this one's a long way from home, if 'e's wot 'e sez 'e is.'
It was clear that they were going to take him for a Fifth Columnist until proved otherwise, Bastable realized.
'I have identification on me,' he said haughtily.
'An' you could 'ave got that from anywhere,' said the Sergeant suspiciously. 'You could be Adolf-bloody-Hitler for all I know!'
"Oo won the cup in 1938?' challenged the driver.
Bastable stared at him in horror. 'Which cup?'
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By the expressions on their faces he might just as well have phrased the question in German. Of course, it was a football cup—and he was a crass idiot not to have realized it. All the other ranks were mad on football, of the soccer variety, so that it had been a source of dissension in the Prince Regent's Own that the regimental game was rugger. But he knew nothing about that either, although he had been forced to play it—at considerable cost to his person in bruises and contusions—and yet to admit knowing nothing about either sport now would be disastrous.
Fear honed up his wits. 'Who won Wimbledon?' he challenged the driver. The mixed doubles?'
'Wimbledon?' the driver looked to his sergeant. 'What's that?'
'Tennis,' said the Sergeant shortly. 'Who —' He cut off the question unasked. 'No! Who's Len Mutton?'
So the Sergeant was smart enough not to ask a question which his Fifth Columnist could answer. Which was just as well, because he hadn't the faintest idea who had won the mixed doubles in '38. But he did know who Hutton was.
'Test cricketer.'
But he must retain the initiative. He plucked the only name he could think of out of his memory. 'Who's Sydney Wooderson?' he slammed the question in before the Sergeant could counter-attack him. Father had been a notable athlete in his youth, and Wooderson's record mile was one of his favourite Great British Triumphs.
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The revolver drooped slightly. The Sergeant evidently didn't know who Sydney Wooderson was, but remembered the name.
'Look, Sergeant —' Bastable pressed his advantage,' —
whoever I am—and I'm Captain Bastable of the PROs, I assure you—whoever I am, I suggest we all get the blazes out of here before the Germans arrive!'
The Sergeant's jaw tightened. 'Why were you tryin' to hide from us—shammin' dead?'
'From you?' Bastable looked round over the open field in surprise. 'I was . . . taking cover from those German planes!'
'But they'd gone—we took cover from them. An' you stayed flat. . . sir.' There was doubt in the Sergeant's voice.
Humiliation stared Bastable in the face—and he embraced it like a sinner in the Confessional. 'Because I was scared shitless, Sergeant—that's why! We haven't been bombed at Colembert—we haven't even seen enemy aircraft close up. I was heading for your chaps at Belléme, to get ammunition for our anti-tank rifles, when I ran into their tanks, just not far from here.'
Suddenly the Mendip sergeant's face cracked into friendliness. Not knowing who had won the Cup was one thing —but being frightened was a password he understood.
'Hop on, sir!' he commanded. 'Get moving, Darkie!'
Bastable threw himself into the carrier. 'Where's your Number Three?'
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The carrier squealed and jerked forward. 'Lost 'im near Doullens,' shouted the Sergeant. 'Jerry armoured car— but we knocked the bastard out with the Bren then—God knows how . . . Where's Jerry, sir?'