Meyer screwed his monocle into his eye and found that he was looking through a film of perspiration. In the hour of victory he felt exhausted, overwhelmed by the dazzling series of triumphs Storch had produced since that day so long ago when they crossed the Meuse at Sedan. So long ago? It was the afternoon of Saturday, May 25th, and they had made their way over the pontoons at Sedan on May 14th. Meyer felt stunned. Perhaps, after all, this was a war for the younger men, for the Storches. The general stood gazing out to sea, talking rapidly.
‘I want an immediate investigation made of this French Fascist’s story – that informant from Lemont. He says there is a second road direct to Dunkirk – a road the enemy may’ not know about now that the sluice gates have been opened.’
‘The French were very quick about that – the floods will make it very difficult for the Panzers to move on Dunkirk…’
Storch broke in impatiently. ‘This is why this second road may be decisive. I want you to interrogate this man personally.’
‘I can’t find such a road on any map…’
‘But that is the whole point, Meyer. Our Fascist friend has explained that for some reason it is not included on most French maps. So if the British are holding the sector at the other end they may not know it exists now it is under water. Even if there are French units in that sector they will probably come from another part of France. That road could be the key to final victory – the road along which the Panzers will advance to Dunkirk.’
‘I don’t think we should count on it.’
They paused as they heard the humming sound of a host of engines above them. Craning their necks they stared into the sky where an armada of small grey dots was approaching from the east, the humming growing steadily louder as the planes came forward like a swarm of angry bees. Storch nodded his head in satisfaction.
‘General Goering is on time again and I see he has the sky to himself. When Mr Churchill opened the cupboard this morning he must have found his shelves bare.’
‘We mustn’t count on air immunity any longer,’ said Meyer sharply. ‘After all, we can actually see England from here.’
Storch tightened his lips at this sign of caution. ‘I want a very detailed report about your conversation with, this Fascist. He says this road will be covered by only a few inches of water – sufficient to conceal its existence but not enough to prevent the passage of the Panzers. Since he is a local he may well know what he is talking about.’
‘I’d better go now.’
But Meyer did not go immediately because his sharp ears had heard a fresh sound in the sky, an engine sound different from that of Goering’s huge aerial fleet. Whipping up his glasses he focused them towards the west while beside him Storch also stood with his binoculars aimed upwards. High above the Channel, at an altitude much greater than the Luftwaffe bombers, several squadrons of RAF fighters flew steadily on course, heading for an invisible point which would take them over the heart of the oncoming bombers, although from the ground it seemed that the two air fleets were advancing on a collision course. Less than a minute later the RAF formations dived to the attack, roaring down like avenging hornets on the massed planes below, weaving in and out of the pattern of bombers which was now becoming disorganized as the pilots forgot their objectives and desperately began to take evading action. In less than two minutes the huge German air armada was flying in all directions, its attack formation completely shattered. One bomber spiralled to the ground and crashed into the fields a mile away, to be followed by a second, but this one was heading for the coast close to where Storch and Meyer stood. As one man they dropped flat behind the hull of a nearby tank only seconds before the bomber hit the earth three hundred yards away, its bomb load exploding a few seconds after the moment of impact. The vibrations of the shock wave rattled the tank behind which they sheltered and a shower of soil rained down on Storch’s neck and shoulders. Meyer spoke quietly.
‘Mr Churchill must have found something at the bottom of his cupboard.’
‘Driver, halt! There’s a parachute coming down,’ Barnes warned.
The air battle had raged over their heads, out of sight, for several minutes – out of sight even though the sky was cloudless because the planes were high and against the glare of the early afternoon sun. From the noise it sounded as though several machines were wheeling and diving as they fought each other to death in the sunlight. The engine sounds had come closer and faintly he had heard the stutter of machine guns but they went on manoeuvring in front of the sun so that he had found it impossible to locate them until he had heard the ominous sound of a plane plunging into a tremendous power dive. Then he had located a small dark shape spinning earthwards a long way to the west, much too far off to identify its nationality quite apart from the fantastic speed at which it approached the ground. It vanished and he heard a distant cough. Petrol tank gone. A thread of black smoke crept up from the horizon. Overhead the sky was full of warm silence. He gave the order to advance, reversing that order almost at once as he saw the tiny inverted cone of the single parachute floating down. He waited.
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 behind 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 magazine. 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 landing 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.