'Oh, definitely, sir,' agreed Sykes, winking. 'Some people have it - the Luck - and others don't. Just one of those things.'
'Oh, I'm not so sure about that.' He chuckled. 'But it's certainly a comforting thought.'
Soon after, the lieutenant was asleep, his head resting against the door, snoring lightly.
Tanner took out the German cigarettes, lit two and passed one to Sykes.
'Cheers, Sarge.'
Tanner stared out at the softly rolling Flanders countryside. Away from the road, on a shallow crest, he could see a couple of villages - a knot of houses and a church spire sticking out above the roofs; small, tight communities not so very different, he supposed, from the village where he had grown up. And now the war was cutting a swathe through them and people were leaving their homes in droves. He wondered what the inhabitants of Alvesdon would do if the Germans ever reached Britain. Would they run? He hoped not.
'Sarge?' said Sykes. 'I've been meaning to ask. How did you get those two guards last night? I never heard a sound.'
Tanner smiled. 'It was pretty straightforward, actually,' he said. 'I knew we had surprise on our side. They weren't expecting anything and they made it easier for me by splitting up so I could confront each in turn. Forearm tight round the neck to smother the voicebox, then a short sharp stab in the kidney. They were both dead before they knew what was happening. I learned a long time ago that the kidneys are the place to go for if possible.'
'Why's that?'
'Ever been hit there?'
'Yes.'
'And it hurt, right?'
'Like hell.'
'Exactly. Shove a bayonet in one and the pain is so intense the body packs it all in immediately. The brain can't take it and neither can the heart. And it's not particularly messy.'
Sykes nodded. 'I'll remember that, Sarge.' He was quiet for a moment. 'By the way, did you smell burning near Valenciennes?'
'Yes - why?'
'Seems the population fled just after the balloon went up and then the French Army moved in. Anyway, they weren't best behaved and managed to set alight a huge fuel dump that caused a massive fire in the centre of the town. So we could have gone through there after all.'
'Bloody Frogs,' muttered Tanner.
The road was soon filled with refugees again, the same trail of wretched civilians traipsing along, some on foot, others on carts, a few in vehicles. The road had clearly been busy for some time now. All along it there was human detritus: bags, suitcases - some flung open - paper, even books lined the verges. Here and there a shirt or dress was caught in a bush or on a branch and flapped helplessly in the breeze. There were cars and other vehicles too, run off the road and abandoned. Those too exhausted sat or lay on the grass - mostly the elderly and children, the former gazing outwards with blank disbelieving expressions, the latter often crying, tears streaming down grubby cheeks, anxious parents trying vainly to comfort them.
A few miles short of Douai, a Citroen in front of them, laden too high with cases and bags, swerved to avoid a mule that had wandered into the middle of the road. The string holding the load snapped and everything tumbled down across the road. A flustered middle-aged man wearing spectacles and a Homburg got out to collect his cases and put them back.
'Bloody sensible that,' said Sykes. 'Why the hell doesn't he pull off the road and sort himself out there?'
Captain Barclay was now standing up in the Krupp yelling at the hapless man. 'Come on, Stan, let's give the poor sod a hand,' said Tanner.
They jumped down from the cab, collected the remaining cases, and put them on the verge.
'Merci, messieurs,' said the man, pushing his spectacles back up his nose.
Tanner pointed to his car and motioned to him to move it.
'Ah, oui, oui,' said the man, tapping his head apologetically, and got in.
The aircraft was upon them almost before anyone had a chance to react - a faint whirr and then a deep-throated roar as it sped towards them.
'Get down!' yelled Tanner, diving to the ground. For a split second he thought the aircraft might pass without firing. But as it thundered overhead, no more than a hundred feet above them, the Messerschmitt's machine- guns opened up, two lines of bullets scything along the road ahead, the first just inches from him. A splinter of stone clattered against his helmet and nicked the edge of his ear. Then the fighter flew on, climbing slightly, and disappeared over a line of trees.
'So that's a 109,' said Sykes, as he and Tanner dusted themselves down.
'You two all right?' asked Captain Barclay, fifteen yards behind them in the Krupp.
'Fine, sir,' said Tanner, dabbing at the blood from his ear. 'Bloody close, though, eh, Stan?'
'Reckon he was aiming for our lot, don't you?'
Tanner shrugged. 'Maybe - and just overflew slightly.'
A curious smell now hung heavy in the air: a cloying stench of oil, petrol, dirt and blood. Ahead they heard wailing. The mule that had caused the hold-up in the first place lay sprawled across the road, its owner bent over it sobbing. Further on there were more dead, and a boy was screaming, the sound jarring Tanner's head. 'Jesus,' he muttered.
Then Sykes saw the Citroen. 'Bloody hell,' he said. 'Look, Sarge. The bastard.'
Following his gaze, Tanner saw a line of bullet holes across the car. The driver was slumped, lifeless, across the steering-wheel. Blood ran down the bonnet in front of him.
Poor sod. Tanner was vaguely aware of Blackstone barking orders to the men.
The men of D Company did what they could. They handed out field dressings to the wounded and put the worst injured into the backs of the trucks to take them to hospital in Douai. The Krupp shunted the car, mule and cart off the road, with the stray cases and other belongings.
Before the German pilot's attack the men's mood had been good, buoyed by food and rest, and by the knowledge that they were nearing British forces. Now, however, they cleared away debris, wreckage and broken bodies sombrely, speaking little. It was the boy that got to Tanner most. Repelled by his screams yet compelled to go to him, Tanner had found him - no more than ten years old, he guessed - with his leg nearly severed. His parents were crouched beside him, almost demented with grief and by their inability to help him.
'Smiler!' shouted Tanner, as the platoon medic tended an elderly lady further back. 'I need you here now!'
Smailes hurried over and put his hand to his mouth as he saw the boy. 'He - he's not going to make it, Sarge,' he stuttered. 'He's lost too much blood already.' A dark stain covered the grass beneath him.
'Just do something,' snapped Tanner. 'You've got morphine, haven't you?'
Smailes nodded.
Wide frightened eyes stared up at the two soldiers. Smailes drew the morphine, flicked the end of the needle, then stuck it into the boy's arm. A few moments later, the child's eyes flickered and finally closed.
Tanner walked back towards the truck, the convulsive sobbing of the boy's parents ringing in his ears.