‘Got them.’
Colburn leant back against the turret and wiped sweat off his hands on his flying suit. He had shot men out of the air but this Was different. He had caught a brief glimpse of the man in the side-car pitching out head first towards the ground and he was amazed it was all over so quickly. He had been very frightened for those few minutes, so frightened that he had made a bad mistake in not wiping his hand earlier – that second grenade had nearly slipped, had nearly gone down inside the turret. The very thought of it made him sweat again but now that it was all over he felt enormously relieved, relieved that he was still alive. And this was a mere bagatelle, a single motor-cycle and side-car. What faced them somewhere just ahead would be on a far bigger scale. The headlights played on a distant wall with wording painted on the plaster. Restaurant de la Gare. He spoke quickly into the mike.
‘That building’s coming up – the restaurant place. Prepare to turn left. I’ll guide you.’
Barnes was already reducing speed and he began turning very slowly, bis hands an extension of Colburn’s instructions as they eased Bert round. The turning was sharp and almost at once they moved on to a downward slope of cobbles. He had to crawl round, edging his way as Colburn leaned out of the turret to check wall clearance, talking down the intercom all the time. They nearly scraped the right-hand wall, then they were round the corner, the tank straightening up and proceeding down the cobbled street, its metal tracks grinding and clattering over the stones. That was close, Colburn was thinking, but we managed it nicely between us. He peered along the beams, still savouring the sensation of relief, wondering how Barnes was feeling.
Inside the nose of the tank Barnes was experiencing a rather different sensation – Barnes was in serious trouble and he wondered whether they had a dog’s chance of making it as a chill of fear seeped through him. One of the detonator boxes had broken loose. It had happened on that last bend while he was struggling grimly to negotiate the corner and allow for the drop in street level. They were almost round the turning when he felt a heavy blow strike his right shoulder. Still in the process of taking Bert round the corner he only had time for a quick glance sideways and this showed him the heavy box projecting well beyond the one it rested on, kept stable now only by the obstacle of his own body. As he moved down the hill, the tank wobbling slightly as it rumbled over the cobbles, he tried to ease the box back into position with his shoulder. The action nearly made him jump out of his seat as pain from the maltreated wound screamed through his body, stabbing at his brain. For one terrible second he thought he was going to faint. He bit down on his lips to drive away the dizziness and reopened the cut in his mouth, tasting his own blood for the second time that night. The heavy box was pressing against his shoulder all the time and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it, except to pray that at the next right-hand turn the box would regain its balance. Was he still driving straight? He forced himself to concentrate on the view through the slit window.
‘Barnes, I can see the canal embankment beyond the bottom of this street, so we’re on the right road. And we turn right in a minute.’
Barnes had been waiting for that right-hand turn but he knew that with both hands occupied with the steering levers his shoulder was still going to have to bear the brunt of shoving that box back against the wall. Would he be able to stand the pain; Colburn’s voice again, a voice edged with tension, the sure sign of further trouble.
‘Something coming up… a soldier in a doorway, a sentry, I think. Keep moving at this speed – we’ll have to turn in less than a hundred yards…’
Colburn ducked his head inside the turret and waited, waited for the challenge, the pause, then the first burst of fire from the machine-pistol the sentry held across his chest. His own machine-pistol was gripped in his hands and he looked upward beyond the open rim of the turret. The tank clattered down over the cobbles, the dark silhouette of irregular rooftops slid past beyond the turret rim, cold specks of starlight glittered distantly in the late night sky. The moon was low now and an early morning chill prickled the back of his neck. Still no sound from the sentry. He couldn’t stand it any longer: he peered over the rim. Nothing moved but he thought that he could still see the shadowed figure by the doorway, a motionless figure. It was incredible. Some of his astonishment travelled down the intercom.
‘Barnes, he never moved – he never moved. And we’re in a British tank.’
It worked, Barnes thought, the element of surprise worked there. Perhaps the sentry hadn’t done his homework on tank silhouettes. He might have been posted there from other duties and he was tired out, so when a vehicle came down the streets of German-occupied Lemont with its headlights blazing he assumed that it must be all right. He could even have been asleep on his feet. But the main thing was it had worked once and it could work again. Colburn’s voice spoke urgently.
‘I can see the embankment clearly now – we’re close to the turn. You’ll have to watch this one, it’s narrow. I’ll guide you round…’
Barnes reduced his speed close to zero. He remembered this bend and it was the worst one they would have to negotiate. The route they were following had been so simple that he had known exactly where they were ever since leaving the farm building. Once they had entered the village the way had led straight forward down the first street, across the square, continuing along the street beyond up to the first left-handed turn down the hill. At the bottom of the hill they turned right and then it was straight on again by the side road at the foot of the canal embankment. If they could only manage this corner… They were almost round the sharp turn when it happened. They were moving slowly forward and then there was a terrific jolt and the tank stopped, its engines still ticking over. Barnes had jammed on the brake, warned by the impact and the scraping sound he had heard just before the jarring crash which rammed the detonator box savagely against his shoulder. He struggled against an overwhelming desire to be sick, too shaken to try and thrust the box back while his hands were free. Then he heard Colburn.
‘Track’s jammed against the left wall. Sorry – my fault. We’ll have to get out of here quickly – that-sentry has started to walk down the hill. Reverse slowly. We can’t go forward.’
Inside the hull Barnes heard the harsh grind of metal plate along immovable wall as he reversed carefully. Then the tank stuck. He grimaced and thought for a few seconds. If they weren’t very lucky he could immobilize them. He remembered once seeing a track split and come apart, so that the tank hull moved for a few yards while it splayed out track like unrolling a metal carpet. If that happened they were done for, and there was that little matter of the sentry coming down the hill to investigate. They couldn’t go forward so they’d have-to go back. Gritting his teeth, he reversed, hearing, feeling, the agonized grind of metal over stone. Then they were free again. And still intact. Colburn guided him round without haste and then they were moving along the next street, the headlights probing its emptiness and desolation. Barnes glanced at his watch, the one he had borrowed from Colburn. 3.30 am.