Tramp in Armour (43 page)

He reached the end of the wall and lifted his head cautiously. Light from a window two houses away spilled out into the night. It must be some sort of German HQ, a good
place to keep away from. He started retreating along the foot
path which ran behind the back garden wall and then looked over his shoulder. The light puzzled him. Perhaps he'd better check: Barnes might want to know who was there. In for a
penny, in for a pound, as his father was fond of saying. Keep
ing his head well down, he crept along the back wall, counting
gates. This must be the right one. The gate wasn't quite closed
and when he pushed it gently it swung back inwards without
making a sound. The vague outline of the lighted window was
broken up by the branches of fruit trees which stood in the
garden. He listened carefully and peered round the end wall to
look along another pathway which led back to the road. If the sentry decided to walk up there while he was inside the garden
he would be nicely trapped. In for a penny...

Creeping down a garden path he reached the back of the
house close to the window and saw that there was a gap in the curtain. Ten-to-one the people inside would be staring straight at the window when he looked in, but he felt he must see what was going on, so he pressed one hand against the wall, eased
himself forward, caught a quick glimpse and stepped back. He
had glanced inside at the moment when Dahlheim had walked
behind Barnes' chair. He had seen his sergeant helpless, the
only time he had ever seen Barnes in this state, and for a few seconds he was stunned, but his mood swiftly changed to one
of fury.

He went back up the garden, out of the gateway, down the
pathway between the houses, his hand extracting the knife from its sheath, a knife which he had carefully honed to a
razor's edge, the point like a needle, the condition in which an ex-fishmonger was prone to keep his knives. At the end of the
path he waited behind the wall and listened to the sentry's
footsteps. The German must have become bored with standing
and now he paced a steady sentry-go - ten paces away, ten
paces back again. While he listened Reynolds remembered a
certain guard duty he had mounted late one night at a remote
camp outside Hull. Alone in the dark, he had particularly dis
liked the moment when he had stopped to turn, still keeping
step as he revolved through one hundred and eighty degrees,
and this was the moment he was waiting for now.

The sentry was coming his way again. Eight, nine, ten ... Leaving the safety of the wall Reynolds moved with a terrible
determination, seeing the back of the German only six feet
away. His hand rose above shoulder level and with the same
movement he crept forward three quiet paces, driving the
knife savagely down into the uniformed back. He felt it shear
ing through cloth, driving down deeper, jerking briefly as it
grazed bone and then sank deeper still. The back fell away
from him and the sentry let out one howling shriek. Reynolds was sure half the street had heard the sound as he bent over to
grab the rifle and fixed bayonet, tearing the strap loose from the limp arm.

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 im
petus 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 ex
pression 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 motion
less 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 Rey
nolds' 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 min
utes 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 de
serted 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?'

'It's more likely to than your idea of firing shells into the
dump. That way there's no guarantee at all that you'll get a
major explosion, but you can bet your sweet life that when this lot goes it'll -lift the whole dump sky-high - just supposing we
ever get close enough and just supposing we don't go up before
we get there. If we do, they won't have any burial problems with us. Just look down there - this tank is one ruddy great
bomb.'

The floor of the turntable at the base of the turret had been
tightly packed with gun-cotton slabs and to this lethal foundation Colburn had added a quantity of instantaneous detonating
fuses, several cans of petrol, a quantity of phosphorus and some grenades he had found in a satchel. The remaining
grenades were still in the satchel hanging from the top of the
turret where he could reach them easily. Even closer to hand
was the plunger mechanism and a large spool of wire. Colburn
pointed to the plunger.