‘Two-pounder. Traverse right. Right! Steady!’
The turret swung him round and steadied. Perfect. Davis could have done no better, and Davis had been good.
‘Range six hundred. Six hundred.’
Barnes had the glasses pressed into his eyes as he watched the dust cloud’s progress. It appeared to be moving across their line of fire now. Was it possible that in the uncertain light of dusk that they hadn’t been spotted after all? In less than five minutes he knew that the Panzers had another objective altogether, somewhere far to the north. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. It was almost dark as he gave them the news over the intercom, following it up with the order to advance.
To save tune and to avoid the farmer on the tractor who was close behind him now, Barnes guided the tank towards the road along a different course from the one which had brought them to the ridge, moving at an oblique angle which would take them back on to the road some distance north of the point where they had left it. The tank completed its quarter-turn and rumbled forward over the grass, leaving a faint trail of chalk as the substance disengaged itself from the tracks. It may have been the treacherous light of dusk, or it may have been the throbbing of his wound which grew worse towards night: it may have been a combination of these two factors which momentarily robbed him of his normal lynx-eyed observation, but whatever the cause Barnes failed to see the change in the texture of the land they were crossing, failed to see that whereas a moment ago they were passing over green grass and baked earth, now the grass was sparser, growing in isolated tufts, and even where it grew its colour was a strange, almost sinister acid green colour.
His first warning of the danger was the moment when the tank stopped moving forward, although its huge tracks continued to churn round, moving uselessly as the whole tank slowly began to tilt. The tilting motion was in a backward direction, so slight that at first Barnes wondered whether he was suffering from an attack of dizziness, but as the motion continued and he looked quickly over the side the awful truth dawned. They were sinking, sinking more rapidly as the quagmire sucked at the tracks, dragging over twenty-six tons of tank downward into its drowning grip.
NINE
Saturday, May 25th
His instinct was to give the order to reverse, to take the tank backwards on to the firm ground they had left. Opening his mouth, he closed it again without speaking. Work this out, Barnes, and quickly. The front seems stable, so it may be on solid ground; only the back is going down. If you reverse you may never reach firm ground. Switching on his pocket torch, ‘ he swept the beam behind the tank. They appeared to have broken up a very thick crust of earth baked hard by weeks of sunshine, exposing a horrible sticky ooze lower down which gleamed in the torchlight. Go forward then? Climbing out of the turret he walked forward over the left-hand track, sat down and gingerly lowered one leg. Firm enough. But in the beams of the headlights he had told Reynolds to switch on he could see the same type of pallid baked earth, the surface cracked with tiny fissures. Was that firm ground or were they perched on an island of solidity with more quagmire ahead? At least the tank had stopped tilting backwards now, as though it had found a precarious equilibrium. Colburn came out of the turret and climbed down on to the hull.
‘What are you playing at, Sergeant?’
‘We’ve run into a bog. It’s as soft as butter behind us now and I’m not too sure of this lot. Get ready to grab me – I’m going to test it for firmness.’
He lowered his full weight on his right leg and the ground held, but it was rather like treading on a sponge. He slipped the other leg down and stood up, felt a crumbling sensation under his left leg and the ground caved in. He started to go down, suddenly up to his knees in filthy ooze. Hands grabbed him from behind, hauled him bodily backwards and lifted, sitting him back on the track, legs astraddle it. Carefully, he turned round and scrambled back on to the hull.
‘Thanks, Colburn. You just about saved my bacon there. No way ahead and no way back. Get me a rope from that box near the compass. I’ve got to find out how far away we are from the shore.’
He waited until Colburn had emerged from the turret again and then tied a loop under his shoulders, handing the free end to the Canadian. The tractor had arrived now and it stood on the bank of the quagmire with its headlights beamed direct on to the tank, blinding Barnes as he made his way along the rear track while Colburn stayed on the hull. The farmer was shouting non-stop across the quagmire in French and with his limited knowledge of the language Barnes, couldn’t understand a word. If only they’d speak slower. He shouted back slowly in English that he was crossing to the bank and received an outburst in reply. Looking back to make sure that Colburn was in position, he pulled a face.
‘Pity you don’t speak French as well as handling machine guns.’
‘I know German. Do you think he might savvy that?’ ‘Don’t try it, for God’s sake. He’s probably only friendly because we’re British.’ ‘How can he know that?’
‘Because of the uniform – he must have seen enough of them before we decided to trot off into Belgium. Here goes. Don’t haul me back unless I’m in real trouble. I’ve got to find out how far it is to the bank.’
‘You can see that by the tractor.’
‘He’ll be yards farther back than he need be. It must be his quagmire.’
Reaching out sideways well beyond the track his right foot touched firmness. But for how long? He put his full weight on it and the ground held. He put his other leg down and there was no feeling of sponginess. He was away from the tank now. Get on with it. A bold step forward with the right leg: it landed on more firmness, a tuft of grass. Were they really as close as this to safety? He lifted the other foot and when it reached the earth it went on going down at an alarming rate, straight through the crust into liquid mud which sent up a dank nauseating smell. Jerking his other foot off the tuft he thrust it forward as far as he could and it hit solid earth, his legs splayed wide apart in front and behind him. He tried to heave the rear foot loose but found he was in serious trouble: it had sunk in up to the knee and the quagmire was wrapped round his leg like some monstrous sea creature determined to suck him down into its lair. Fighting down a rising sense of panic, he heaved again with all his strength, feeling the leg coming up reluctantly, mud oozing and sucking as he pulled. Then it came free with a jerk and he fell flat on his face, aware that the ground under his body was hard and still. Strong hands locked under his shoulders and helped him to his feet. By the light of the tractor’s beams he looked into the farmer’s face, the long lean face of a man in his forties, still babbling away in French.
‘Thanks,’ said Barnes. ‘Can you speak more slowly?’ ,
Unlooping the rope from his shoulders, he looked behind the Frenchman to where the tractor stood and then walked up to it. Tied to the side were half a dozen iron stakes with ring heads: the stakes were at least sis feet long and the farmer had obviously been erecting a fence.. With sign language he indicated that he needed the stakes and the farmer nodded his head vigorously in agreement. Cutting the rope with his knife he carried three of the stakes to the bank and called out: