Tramp in Armour (31 page)

While he waited he thought about Penn. Since noon they had passed through three abandoned villages, and when he had halted the tank and walked through their deserted streets he had in each place found a house with the tantalizing word
Medecin
on a door-plate, but there had been no one behind the doors. Inside the third village they had stopped briefly for a quick meal from the Mandels' food parcel but Penn hadn't shared the meal because he appeared to have fallen into a state of unconsciousness. Alarmed, Barnes had checked his pulse but the beat was steady. When he felt his forehead it was hot and damp, and now everything in Barnes' mind was dominated by his new priority - finding a doctor. They were within four miles of the next village before the air battle going on overhead had attracted his attention as he halted the tank to attend to a call of nature. Reynolds twisted his head above the hatch to follow the course of the cone as it grew larger and
larger drifting straight for them across the deserted fields. He called up from the hatch.

'Ours or theirs?'

'No idea.'

It was a good question, a vital question, in fact. The last
thing they could cope with at the present was a Luftwaffe pilot
as a prisoner. But if he had seen them and they let him go free
it might be less than an hour before German headquarters in
Cambrai knew of the presence of a British tank prowling be
hind their lines. As he watched the parachutist drift lower
Barnes swore to himself. He had already shot one German for
mercy reasons beside the wrecked infantry truck, but the idea
of shooting one down in cold blood for their own protection was rather a different business. Maybe he'll open fire on me,
Barnes told himself. If he does I'll let him have half the maga
zine. There was, of course, just the chance that the pilot wouldn't see them. The parachute was drifting lower and
lower - and closer - the tiny figure underneath pulling at cords
to guide himself, bobbing about so erratically that Barnes found it impossible to focus the glasses on him. Reynolds called up from the hatch.

'What if it is a Jerry?'

'Then we'll have a problem on our hands.'

'I'd shoot the bastard. He's probably just back from machine-gunning one of those refugee columns.'

Barnes was surprised. It was the first time that Reynolds
had ever expressed an opinion without being asked for one.
His burnt arms must be playing him up badly. Reaching down,
he picked up the machine-pistol and tucked it under his arm.
There was no hope now that the parachutist might not see
them - as he drifted close to the earth he was floating nearer
and nearer to the tank. From that height and distance he
couldn't possibly miss seeing them. Climbing down from the turret he stood on the hull so that he could see the exact land
ing point. The parachutist was now tugging frantically at the
cords so that the cone which had been almost overhead was floating away from them along the country road. He jumped down off the hull.

'I can follow him in the tank,' offered Reynolds.

'No, I'll investigate this blighter myself - get another machine-pistol out of the turret and wait here.'

'Watch yourself, Sergeant. Don't forget Seft.'

That was the trouble at the moment, Barnes thought. We're
in a general state of jitters. Apart from the Mandel farm,
which had been a brief oasis of peace in a nightmare world,
ever since they had arrived at Fontaine they had met either the
enemy in the form of Panzers or treachery in the form of Lebrun; in the case of Seft the enemy and treachery had
combined into one menace. So what was he going to encounter
now? Let him give me just one reason, just one small reason,
and I'll press the trigger.

He was running along the dusty road when the pilot landed
in the field close to the verge, the parachute billowing as it
dragged its owner across the grass. The cloth cone collapsed
slowly. Barnes ran faster. He wanted to get there before the
pilot disentangled himself from the cords, but as he came
closer the man released himself from the parachute and
climbed to his knees, facing Barnes who ran up with the
machine-pistol thrust forward. Were pilots armed? He didn't
think so but he wasn't taking any chances. The kneeling figure
saw the gun and stayed on his knees, throwing bis arms wide to
show that he was unarmed. The next second will tell, Barnes
thought grimly, and then the man spoke.

'And what is a Limey doing in this part of France, I'd like
to know? Don't shoot the pilot - he's done his best!'

'You're an RAF pilot?'

Barnes asked the question sharply, his pistol still armed at
the pilot's chest as his eyes roamed over every inch of the
man's flying suit. From underneath goggles pushed up over the
leather helmet a rugged face stared upwards at Barnes, the
face of a man who might be any age between twenty-five and
thirty-five. His skin was tanned brown, the texture almost as leathery as the suit he wore; his huge nose, strongly boned,
overhung a broad, firm-lipped mouth, and his jaw-line sug
gested great strength of character. This, thought Barnes, is a
tough egg, a very tough egg. But the overall impression of
toughness was tempered by the humorous expression in his
blue eyes, a humour which came to the surface with his
reply.

'If I'm not RAP the Luftwaffe is employing some pretty dubious characters.'

His accent was heavily American and this alone was discon
certing, plus the fact that the pilot himself appeared more
amused than disconcerted, an unusual reaction when a man
found himself at the wrong end of a gun. But Barnes couldn't
forget that Penn had thought Seft a genuine Belgian, and it
was just possible that the Luftwaffe employed a few renegade
Americans.

'Get on your feet,' Barnes said tightly.

'Coming down I think I broke both me legs, Sergeant.'

God, another lame duck to take aboard Bert. As if it wasn't enough having to cope with Penn he was now going to have
another patient on his hands. The tank was rapidly turning
into a casualty clearing station: the only trouble was that
there was nowhere to clear them to. He went back several
paces as the pilot clambered carefully to his feet. The stranger grinned.

'Correction, Sergeant. I just
feel
as though I've broken both
me legs. Ever landed in one of those things? The ground looks
to be coming up so peacefully and then at the last minute it
flies up and hits you like a steam-hammer.'

'I didn't know the RAF were recruiting Americans,' Barnes
said grimly.

'Canadians, please!' He lifted one gloved hand in mock
horror. 'Although your error of geography is understandable, Sergeant. My mother is Canadian and my father was American, but I was born in Canada. Ever heard of Wainwright,
Alberta? No, I didn't think you would have. It's about the size
of a pinhead but the CNR expresses do stop there to unload
drums of ice-cream for the locals.' He gestured behind Barnes.
'Is that your tin can back there?'

'The tin can is a Matilda tank. Have you any way of prov
ing your identity?'

'Sure. If I unbutton my jacket and slip my hand inside real
slow you'll promise not to pull the trigger?'

Barnes didn't reply and he watched the pilot's hand care
fully as it ferreted inside the jacket, but when the fingers came
out again they only held an RAF identity card. The pilot held it between his fingers for a moment.

'Now if I try and hand it to you there's a danger you'll think
I'm going to jump you. On the other hand, if I drop it on the ground for you to pick it up. I could just possibly land a boot
in your eye. So which is it to be?'

'Drop it on the ground - then take six paces back.'

The pilot was still pacing backwards when Barnes stooped
quickly to grab the identity card. Using only his left hand he
fingered open the card, wondering whether he was carrying on
with his check through caution or sheer cussedness at Col
burn's attitude. Because that was the name in the card. Flying Officer James Q. Colburn.

'The Q is for Quinn,' Colburn explained helpfully, 'which
comes from my mother's side of the family. The Quinns are an
old British Columbia family - old, that is, by Canadian stan
dards - although...'

'All right, Colburn.' Barnes skimmed the card through the
air and the pilot caught it with his left hand. 'What happened
up there near the sun?'

'You're satisfied with my identity, then, Sergeant?'

'I think so.'

'Well how about letting me see your pay-book - or am I supposed to take you at face value alone?'

Barnes looked at the six-foot pilot. He had a seriously ill
loader-operator on his hands, he was in a great hurry to push
on to the next village in search of medical help, and he had
expected to find a Luftwaffe pilot struggling to free himself from the cords. He was certainly in no mood for wisecracks
with freelance Canadians.

'I'm Sergeant Barnes and if you think I'm going to show
you my pay-book you're out of your tiny mind. What do you
think that thing standing behind me is - a Jerry tank? And
even you must have seen a British Army uniform.'

'All right! All right!' Colburn waved a placatory hand.
'And don't think I don't appreciate you've probably had a hell
of a fortnight, whereas I'm just over here for the afternoon. At
least I thought I was,' he added. 'But may I point out that I'm
wearing RAF flying kit and that what you saw come down in
flames wasn't a vacuum cleaner. It was, at the time of take-off
from Mansion, a perfectly good Hurricane.'

'It came down so quickly I hardly saw it till the crash. A
Messerschmitt got you, I suppose?'

'Three of them - although that's no excuse. They chased me
down here from the coast, which was a 'bad reaction on my
part since I hadn't the petrol to make home base even if I -could have clobbered the lot. Let's face it - they out-man
oeuvred me. And, Sergeant, do I have to sing
Auld Lang Syne
before you'll put away the carbine?'

Barnes lowered the machine-pistol and nodded. 'Sorry, but
we had a little trouble with a German fifth columnist who said
he was Belgian so I'm taking nothing for granted. You could
have been one yourself, Colburn.'

'Out of the sky?' queried the Canadian ironically, then his
expression changed. 'I'm sorry - you're right to check everything. Those characters really exist, then? We've heard plenty
of rumours - so many you'd think France was swarming with
them.'

'The only thing this part of France swarms with is Panzers.'
Barnes stared hard at Colburn before he went on. Was Col
burn really as tough as he looked? 'You've come down in the
middle of a gigantic no-man's-land which could be at least
twenty miles wide, but the only troops we've seen are parts of
armoured divisions. We're completely on our own - just one
Matilda tank.'

Barnes had relaxed a little now and he was prepared to wait
for a few more precious minutes while he made up his mind.
He was studying Colburn quite dispassionately, without the
least trace of sentiment, weighing him up ruthlessly. And
Barnes had some experience of weighing up men. In this in
stance he was applying only one criterion - would Colburn
be an asset or a liability? If he was going to be the latter
then he wasn't coming with them. Colburn stared at him
steadily.