His reactions now were an echo of his early basic training -taking up the rifle, one hand gripping the stock, the other stretched well along the barrel as he grasped it close to the bayonet. He was running full pelt for the front door when it opened in his face, revealing a uniformed figure. Dahlheim held a Luger pistol in his hand but before he could press the trigger Reynolds was on him, his headlong rush carrying the bayonet deep into Dahlheim’s stomach. He groaned and went over backwards, carried to the floor by the still-moving impetus of Reynolds’ violent charge. Automatically, the driver stood a foot on the sprawled body and used it as leverage to withdraw the bayonet with one quick hard pull, his eyes searching the room beyond.
When they heard the sentry’s awful cry Dahlheim had just gripped Barnes round the neck. At Berg’s instant command he had taken out his Luger and rushed to the front door, opening it as Berg came round the side of the desk, his own gun already in his hand. Barnes heard Dahlheim’s horrible groan while Berg was passing him. Shooting out his left leg, he caught the German between his own legs and tripped him. Berg was on the floor when Barnes flung his whole weight sideways, carrying himself and the chair over on top of Berg, the fall smashing the left chair arm so that his wrist was immediately released still encircled with wire. He was half on top of Berg, still tied inside the chair as he raised his left fist and clubbed him viciously in the face. Then the chair slipped and took him over farther sideways so that now he was lying on the floor" trapped by the chair behind him. He saw Berg blink, spit blood from his mouth where the fist had broken teeth, and then he raised the revolver which he still held and aimed it point-blank in Barnes’ face. Anchored to the floor by the heavy chair, just too far away to get at Berg, even in that moment of terror Barnes was aware of movement above him and then the rifle butt in Reynolds’ grip smashed down on Berg’s head with a terrible impact. The hand fell back with a thud to the floor and the Luger slipped from the hand as it went slack.
‘Good work, Reynolds.’ Barnes gasped out the trite phrase automatically and just as automatically thought of Dahlheim. ‘Make sure of that other bastard.’
‘He’s finished. Keep still while I get your hand free.’
‘Smash the support off under the chair arm with your rifle butt and then I can slip my wrist off. Go on, man, we’re hellishly short of time.’
They could hear Dahlheim groaning continually behind them as Reynolds aimed the rifle butt carefully, destroying the wooden support under the chair arm so that Barnes could slip his wrist off the end. Then he pressed the wire bracelets down over his hands while Reynolds unfastened the leather belt which bound him to the chair. Barnes had his back to Dahlheim but he could still hear the agonized moans of the SS officer, the clumping of his shoes on the floor. The moment he was released he swung round and instantly shouted a warning. Dahlheim was turned over on one side, clutching his left hand to his stomach, a hand covered with blood, his face twisted almost out of recognition with the pain, but his right hand had found the pistol. At ‘the moment when Barnes shouted the gun went off.
Dahlheim had fired at random, Barnes felt sure of it because the barrel had been wobbling all over the place. Two more shots entered the ceiling and then the gun fell harmlessly on the floor. Jerking his head round as the pistol skidded against the wall, Barnes looked up and saw Reynolds topple, an expression of amazed disbelief on his large face as he fell and hit the floor with a tremendous crash. Groggily, Barnes climbed to his feet and his legs nearly gave way under him as he picked up the rifle, wobbled forward, and took up a position behind Dahlheim who was now rolling on the floor. He managed to lift the weapon several feet and bring it down again. Even in his weakened state the force of the blow was so great that the rifle jumped out of his hands and fell beside the now motionless German. Kicking the rifle away against the wall he picked up the pistol which still held five cartridges and pushed it down inside his own empty holster, wondering what the devil they had done with his own gun.
‘Reynolds!’
He had a terrible job turning the driver over and then Reynolds began stirring and cursing foully. There was plenty of blood on his left thigh but on making a quick examination Barnes found that the bullet had passed through without lodging in the flesh. He applied a field dressing he always carried and managed to seat the driver in Berg’s chair, an operation which took away nearly all his remaining strength. Inwardly he was swearing. Of all the bloody bad luck. Davis killed by the accident of falling rock. Penn shot down by an envenomed looter. And now Reynolds wounded by a wobbling hand that had hardly been able to hold the gun, let alone aim the bloody thing. Then his eyes fell on his watch. When the chair had gone over sideways the face had been smashed in the fall and the hands had stopped at 2.40 am.
He stood by the desk for a moment, looking down at Reynolds’ haggard face, his thoughts torn and muddled between his wounded driver and the knowledge that within eighty minutes the Panzers he had seen with Jacques from the ridge above the airfield would be on the move, creeping along the underwater road which the French lad had pointed towards. He pulled himself together, refusing to give way to the fatigue clogging his limbs. Think, Barnes, there are things to do.
He opened Berg’s drawer to collect his pay-book, found his own revolver inside, still loaded, and substituted it for the German’s gun.
Reynolds suddenly became talkative and told his sergeant to leave him there since he couldn’t possibly walk or drive. But Barnes just nodded, went to the front door and looked carefully along the silent street. He wasted several precious minutes dragging the dead sentry’s body inside the house, but if a patrol came along he didn’t want the alarm raised if it could be avoided. Dropping the body next to Dahlheim’s, he took a deep breath and began the intricate manoeuvre of hoisting the driver on to his back. Bent double under the great weight, hearing Reynolds’ feet trailing on the floor, he staggered out of the house and wrestled him inside the side-car while his burden protested that the noise of the engine would give them away. Without replying, Barnes went back into the house, switched off the desk light and came out again, closing the door behind Mm.
The starting of the motor-cycle seemed a louder noise than any he had ever heard, but he had made up his mind – he must find a safer place to park Reynolds. The street was still deserted as he drove away from Lemont and reached the outbuildings, cutting the engine quickly and calling out to warn Colburn who emerged from behind a wall with a machine-pistol at the ready. They made Reynolds as comfortable as possible by sitting him on some straw inside one of the buildings – Barnes was determined that this time he would take no wounded crew member on what might be Bert’s final journey. And, he thought grimly, for this journey his crew was now reduced to two – himself and Colburn.
At 3.20 am they were ready to move, but only because they had worked like Trojans. Barnes looked up at Colburn who now occupied his own position inside the turret – the tank commander himself was going to have to drive Bert on his last trip.
‘You really think it will work, Colburn?’