‘Blighter got me in the shoulder… Lebrun… watch it -he’s behind that building…’
‘Take it easy…’
Reynolds spoke quickly. ‘It’s all right, I can see to him.’
Barnes ran across the rubble towards the stunted house from where he had first seen Lebrun and his gang, ran crouched low, bis eyes everywhere, the machine-pistol held forward in front of his stomach, his mind calculating and murderous. The house came closer and he watched both corners, watched a window which faced his approach, the only three points from which Lebrun could take him by surprise. As he ran he cursed himself for overlooking that rifle, but who would dream of checking an ancient weapon like that? Some idiot must have kept the damned thing loaded in his house and Lebrun had pinched it because of the silver-plated stock. He reached the house, crept round the outer walls, looked inside through a half-wrecked doorway, and saw the entire ground floor at one glance because the internal walls had collapsed, leaving only a stone staircase which led upwards past the still intact ceiling. On an impulse he stepped inside and carefully mounted the staircase which trembled under his footsteps. He emerged on to a flat roof, the floor of the upper storey which had vanished, and it gave him an all-round view over the rubble-strewn desolation behind the house, a region of large bomb craters. Inside one huge hole something flashed in the sunlight.
Lebrun knew instantly that Barnes had spotted him and now he began to scramble to his feet, kicking up dust from the crater floor, shouting hysterically at the top of his voice as he lifted the rifle and waved it harmlessly. The silver on the stock flashed again and again in the sun. Was he saying that the rifle wasn’t loaded, was he begging for mercy? Barnes neither knew nor cared. Without pity, without any real emotion, he lowered the muzzle of the machine-pistol, braced his legs and fired, sweeping the fusillade of bullets over the crater floor where they coughed up spurts of dust. Lebrun was on his feet and suddenly he jerked, then he fell over backwards and lay still. The bombed zone was terribly silent.
Barnes pulled a face. His tank crew was now down to two men.
FIVE
Friday, May 24th
Penn was in a bad way. Barnes only had to look at his face to tell that; a face which was normally pink and fresh was now the colour of grey mud and his eyes lacked life. He sat up on his seat inside the tank, a folded blanket behind his back, and Reynolds had just finished cleaning the wound which was in the right shoulder, a similar wound to Barnes’, but in Perm’s case the bullet had entered from the back instead of from above. Reynolds was just about to apply a field dressing but he waited while Barnes examined it. The driver constantly had to swab up fresh blood and Barnes wasted no time.
‘What’s the verdict?’ Penn asked weakly.
‘I’ve seen worse, much worse, and they survived.’-
‘I’m afraid I’m not much use at the moment…’
‘You will be, soon enough. Put the dressing on.’
As Reynolds applied the dressing Penn stiffened his back against the blanket and took the bottle of cognac which Barnes had opened for him.
‘Just a few sips now – don’t get greedy.’
‘Rationing me?’ Penn managed the pale imitation of a smile.
‘You can have a stiffer tot, in a minute. Do you think you can stay in that seat when Bert’s on the move?’
‘Course I can – anything to get away from this bloody hole: This place gives me the creeps. Did you get Lebrun? I heard…’ He stopped and winced as Reynolds tightened the dressing.
‘Yes, he’s dead. He took half a magazine in the guts.’
‘I should have seen him… my fault…’
‘No, it isn’t. There was no reason for you to think that he might be armed, or even come back at all for that matter.’
‘Anything in the tool box?’
‘A big monkey wrench – it will replace the one we lost at Etreux. We’ll get you out of this beauty spot…’
‘Join the Army and see the world. Thanks, Reynolds, that’s better. What was I saying? Oh, yes. The people you meet in this man’s Army. When this is all over I’ll publish my memoirs. You didn’t know I was keeping a diary, did you, Sergeant?’
‘No,’ lied Barnes.
‘Strictly against regulations. You’ll have to put me on a charge. Three days’ CB – confined to Bert. Looks as though I’ll be confined to him anyway.’
He laughed feebly and then stopped abruptly, his face cramping in a spasm of pain. Barnes handed him the cognac bottle again and told him to take several mouthfuls, watching him closely. The vital thing was for Penn to stay conscious until they got clear of Beaucaire. At least a little colour was flowing back into his face as the alcohol penetrated his bloodstream. Reynolds gathered up a number of blood-soaked swabs and climbed out of the turret. Barnes didn’t like the look of those swabs – Penn must have lost a lot of blood and among the swabs there had been two sodden field dressings, which meant that Reynolds had twice failed to stem the flow.
‘We’ll be moving off now, Penn. I’ll try and avoid the rough patches, but it won’t be like driving along Brighton prom.’
‘Let’s get on with it. We’re heading for Cambrai?’
‘In that general direction, yes.’
‘Don’t forget the Jerry tank Lebrun warned us about – the swine could have been telling the truth about that. Sorry I can’t handle the gun,’ he repeated.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll act as my own gunner till we get you fixed up.’
‘Bet you could do with a bit of a sit-down yourself.’
‘More fresh air up there, my lad. We’ll get under way now.’
Yes, I could do with a bit of a sit-down, Barnes thought as he gave the order to advance from the turret. It was five o’clock in the afternoon and the sun scorched down as the tank headed westward, the tracks grinding up fresh clouds of dust from the powdered rubble, dust which obscured his vision so that he was constantly waving his hand in an attempt to see clear ahead.’ To ease the strain on Penn he had told Reynolds to move at low speed, but it was not entirely a feeling for his corporal’s comfort which prompted his instruction. He wanted Penn to be as strong as possible when the time came -. the time to take out the bullet.
Heaven knew when they would find a doctor and Barnes was not prepared to leave the leaden obstruction festering in Penn’s shoulder. He wished that he knew whether a missile fired from an old hunting rifle was more or less dangerous than a .303 bullet lodged in the same place. He simply had no idea, but there was one small mercy – the bullet appeared to be close to the surface, wedged in down the side of the bone. Extracting the bullet successfully was not likely to be an easy matter, but at least he had had to perform a similar operation once before in India when they had come under fire from hostile tribesmen in a remote spot. He hoped that he could remember how he had managed it then. One basic thing it did involve and that was laying Penn face down on his stomach, and there were less cruel surfaces than dust and rubble for such an operation. He shaded his eyes and gazed ahead, eager for his first sight of open country and fresh green.
They reached the end of the town without warning. One minute they were driving through a street of badly bombed houses and then they turned a corner and France spread away in front of them, a vast landscape of green fields as far as the eye could see, a haze of shimmering heat close to the horizon. Barnes heaved an audible sigh of relief.