He came forward holding a machine-pistol across his body, a body which stooped forward, the face blurred by remnants of dissolving mist. Barnes heard a rustle from behind the parapet where Pierre crouched, and when the rustle stopped the only sound in the heavy stillness was the faint tread of the oncoming soldier’s boots, a tread so light that Barnes knew he was trying to walk cat-footed as he crept forward. Halfway between the ridge and the bridge he stopped, head to one side, listening. Then he began to advance again and Barnes raised himself slightly. This was it. Any second now. He heard a scrabbling sound from the bridge and Pierre stood up, his hands in the air. He was calling out as he walked forward into the open, walking more rapidly when the soldier didn’t open fire, calling out urgently. Barnes stood up, his battledress rumpled, hands by his sides, and also emerged into the open as Pierre reached a point midway between the bridge and the soldier who now swivelled his machine-pistol to train it on Barnes. Turning, Pierre saw Barnes and called out again, one hand pointing, jabbing in Barnes’ direction. He began to run towards the soldier, shouting at the top of his voice, insistently, continuously. A short distance from the helmeted figure he stopped abruptly, his voice dying away as Barnes walked briskly across the field towards the two men. Pierre had been shouting non-stop in German until he saw the face under the helmet, the face of Penn wearing the German sentry’s greatcoat and helmet.
‘You were right about this rat, then.’ Penn levelled his machine-pistol at Pierre’s stomach.
‘Strange behaviour for a Belgian patriot,’ said Barnes. ‘Very strange behaviour. He sees a German soldier come over the top and instead of calling me he runs up to him.’
Penn held the butt of the pistol under his arm, one hand still round the trigger guard while he used the other to undo the top button of his German greatcoat.
‘This thing chokes me. As you were saying – I thought he’d never react. So we’ve trapped ourselves a dirty little spy.’
‘He didn’t react at once because he thought a whole infantry platoon would be coming over the ridge behind you. My appearance on the scene jolted him into action. You made several mistakes, Pierre.’
‘What mistakes? I do not make mistakes.’ Pierre drew himself up, a sneer on his young face, making no attempt to deny the charges. He even ran his fingers through his hair to straighten it.
‘That, for one thing – you’ve an obsession with your personal appearance. After we’d shot up that truck yesterday you arrived on the scene with your hair neatly combed – and you’d just been sprawling in a ditch. No normal lad of seventeen would react like that. But a trained soldier who was fantastically conceited about his good looks might do that automatically – providing he was very tough and a bit of a bastard into the bargain. It was your lot we shot up, remember.’
Pierre’s eyes blazed and he stood very erect. ‘It was not possible to take any action at the time.’
‘No, you were biding your time till you could hand over a Matilda tank intact for inspection by your own people. And another thing – your reaction to that cemetery round the wrecked truck wasn’t right either, not for your supposed age.’
‘The German soldier is not trained to hide under bridges from the enemy.’
Penn took a step forward but Barnes restrained him with a look, his voice still mild when he spoke again.
‘Let him spit away – he’s going to be shot in a minute unless he gives us some information.’
For the first time Barnes thought he detected a flicker of fear in the staring blue eyes, eyes which looked quickly over Penn’s shoulder and then back at Barnes. He tried to speak indignantly but bis voice couldn’t quite manage it.
‘That would be murder, Barnes.’
‘You’ll address me as Sergeant, and I would remind you that since you are not wearing uniform this puts you into the category of a spy who can be shot out of hand. What is your unit, Pierre?’
‘I don’t have to answer your questions.’
‘No, that’s right, you don’t. You can be shot instead.’
‘I might be prepared to answer certain questions.’
‘That’s better. How old are you?’
‘Twenty.’
‘And still with fluff on his cheeks.’ Barnes looked at Penn. ‘Maybe they wean them late in Germany.’
Pierre clenched his hands and stood rigidly, his feet close together, a pink spot on either cheek.
‘What’s your real name, Pierre?’
‘Gerhard Seft. Sergeant Gerhard Seft.’
‘And your unit?’
Silence. Seft’s mouth was a tight line and he looked quickly over Penn’s shoulder again.
‘You haven’t seen any real war, then?’ Barnes goaded him.
Seft’s voice changed. He stiffened his shoulders and almost barked his reply as he glared at Barnes.
‘I served with the Wehrmacht in the Polish campaign. I was at Warsaw. We cut the Poles to pieces, smashed them – and I was there!’
‘Well, you really know the position of a soldier caught in civilian clothes, then.’
The German’s eyes flickered and he changed the subject quickly. ‘How did Corporal Penn get away from the bridge without me seeing him?’
‘He slipped off up the river bed while Reynolds was handing over the guard to you.’ Barnes waited for a reaction but the German said nothing, gazing back blankly as though waiting for something. ‘Seft, why did they push you out on a limb -send you in civilian clothes behind enemy lines? I want to know. Why?’
‘Because I speak perfect English and French. My mother was French.’
Had he put that last bit in to arouse sympathy, to remind his captors that he, too, was human? Barnes suspected as much; his hostility towards Seft grew. His voice was harsher now.
‘Where does this road lead to?’
‘Towards Arras – I told you.’
‘You told me a lot of bloody lies, my lad. And while we’re on the subject where have we come from?’ ‘From Fontaine, of course.’
Seft’s manner was growing more confident again, a trace of the arrogance returning as he realized that he wasn’t going to be shot out of hand. ‘From Fontaine?’ queried Barnes. ‘Try that one again, too.’
‘But he’s right there,’ protested Penn in surprise.
‘Is he? Did anyone in the village except Seft tell you that it was Fontaine? I thought not. The road we were supposed to have taken from Fontaine runs south-west on the map, but this road ran due south for miles before it turned south-west. And we should have passed through at least a dozen villages – instead we came across four towns and not a single village anywhere. Seft’s game was to lead us deeper into German-held territory until he got the chance to hand over Bert intact – and that would have been a feather in his cap. The German High Command would love to have one undamaged tank so they know exactly what they’re up against. He must have been doing his nut when Reynolds held a revolver on him while a whole Panzer division rolled by overhead. And that, Seft, was a further mistake. You were just a little too anxious to come out from cover when your lot arrived. Now, what is the name of the village you called Fontaine?’
He stood looking up at the German, his eyes half-closed. This was his first encounter with a fanatical young Nazi and he found the attitude of sneering arrogance an interesting reaction under the circumstances. It neither startled nor impressed Barnes, he simply thought that it amounted to sheer bloody stupidity. Seft spoke loudly, his voice clipped.