Extracting the magazine, he hunched the weapon under his shoulder and gave a demonstration. Then he replaced the magazine and slipped the pistol under the seat. The energy of the Canadians, thought Barnes. This laddie never stops going. A distinct asset.
‘I still can’t understand why you liked handling explosives as a peacetime occupation,’ he told Colburn.
‘The satisfaction of doing a good job.’ He paused. ‘Hell, let’s face it – I’m a bastard who likes a good blow-up.’
‘You’ve come to the right place.’ He pointed to the right.
Beyond Barnes’ side window the night was lit up with distant flashes, flashes which succeeded each other almost instantaneously like an electric storm. They were racing north through Colburn’s ‘gap’ with the southern flank of the main battle area on their right, although as yet they couldn’t hear the sound of the guns. For the third time in a minute Reynolds glanced in his rear-view mirror.
‘I thought so, Sergeant. We’ve got company. There’s a truck coming up behind us and I think it’s like die one Penn put a shell through.’
‘How far back?’
‘Coming up on our tail. I think he’ll be passing us in a minute. He’s coming at a helluva lick.’
‘Keep your present speed.’
Barnes tightened his grip on the machine-pistol which lay across his lap and Colburn produced the German helmets again with a flourish.
‘Sergeant Barnes, how many men do you think there could be aboard this truck?’
‘At least twenty,’ said Barnes shortly.
‘And we would like to get to Calais rather than fight Custer’s Last Stand here?’
‘That is the general idea.’
‘Then may I offer these – going very cheap? I’ve noticed that in wartime you don’t look at a soldier’s face – you look at his uniform, and the most distinctive part of a German soldier’s uniform is this elegant helmet.’
They said no more, they put the helmets on, and it struck Barnes that he had never seen anyone look more like a German soldier than Reynolds in his helmet which was perhaps just as well since he would be closest to the truck. They could hear the horn blaring behind them now, warning the transporter they were about to be overtaken, and now a chill silence descended on the cab as the tension rose rapidly. Barnes remembered the open-backed trucks which Perm had described and how the sea of faces had stared at him as they went past. If this lot suspects anything, Barnes thought grimly, all they have to do is to play innocent, pass us, and the next thing we’ll know is when a spray of bullets comes through this windscreen. One burst should do for all three of us. He crouched lower in his seat, peering from under the rim of the helmet which was too large for him, changing his grip on the pistol so he could raise and fire in one movement. The only comforting thing was that Reynolds would keep on driving without his nerve cracking as long as he was physically capable of the action. Ah, here they come.
He could see the headlights of the truck now. It seemed to drive part way along the side of the transporter and then hold its speed. Had the tarpaulin come undone? Could they see that it wasn’t a German tank under the sheet? He peered back through the little window and the bulk of the tank blocked his view, but he could see that the tarpaulin was still firmly in place over the rear. The trouble was it was the side which counted. The headlights were moving forward now and out of the corner of his eye he saw the cab of the other vehicle draw level and then move ahead. Any minute now. The cloth-covered side of the truck slid past and the truck was ahead of them. A huddle of helmeted German soldiers stared back into the fierce glare of the headlights, their faces white under the pudding-shaped helmets. Barnes stared back, knowing that they couldn’t see him because of the headlights. They looked dazed, bored, tired. As the truck sped away from them he wondered how many of the soldiers would be alive when the war was over. They took off their helmets and handed them to Colburn.
‘Well, that worked,’ he said, ‘but I can’t say I fancied the experience all that much. Have you had a lot of this sort of thing since you left Etreux?’
‘Not more than six times a day,’ Barnes replied humorously.
‘Oh, well, that’s fine. I thought maybe it happened frequently.’
You could sense the drop in temperature inside the cab, the relief at still being alive, the sheer enjoyment of still being in one piece. Colburn found he had an almost uncontrollable impulse to chatter and it was with difficulty that he restrained himself from overdoing it. These boys really had something to put up with; this long-drawn-out business wasn’t his forte. Give him the air every time. It was short but sharp up there, over with quickly. Ten minutes later the tension crept back into the cab when Reynolds informed them that there were headlights behind again.
‘Another truck?’ queried Barnes.
‘No, I think this is a car. He’s in a hurry, too. I thought I was driving this bus over the speed limits but some of these drivers need certifying. The car behind came up from nowhere like a dirt-track rider.’
‘Let him pass.’
‘Helmets on?’ queried Colburn.
‘Not this time. Whoever it is won’t be able to see clearly into the cab from a car.’
‘He’ll see Reynolds if he looks,’ Colburn objected.
‘I don’t like wearing Jerry helmets,’ said Reynolds flatly.
Headlights had appeared beyond Reynolds’ window and the car began to move up fast. Reynolds glanced down, looked ahead quickly, and then glanced down again. The car moved forward and then stayed alongside the transporter’s bonnet, the driver’s arm projecting and waving madly as he flagged them down. Barnes’ eyes narrowed and he lifted the pistol, a movement which caught Reynolds’ eye.
‘Don’t, Sergeant.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It looked like Jacques. I think he wants us to stop.’
‘Jacques! It can’t be. He passed us this morning on his way to Abbeville.’
‘It’s a green Renault and I’m sure it’s Jacques. In fact,’ Reynolds concluded heavily as though not enjoying contradicting Barnes, ‘I saw him twice. It’s definitely Jacques.’
‘All right. Slow down and then pull in, but keep your engine running. Was he alone?’
‘As far as I could see, yes.’
The darkest suspicion flooded into Barnes’ mind and he put one hand on the door handle ready to jump out as soon as the vehicle stopped. If this really was Jacques no possible stretch of the imagination could explain his presence up here in the Pas de Calais, yet what was he doing so far from the Mandel farm and Abbeville? Still not at all sure that Reynolds hadn’t made some ghastly mistake, he jumped down as soon as the transporter pulled up. When he reached the ground the Renault was stopping a dozen yards ahead. The engine was switched off and a man got out. He ran towards them, shielding his eyes against the powerful beams. It was Jacques.
‘I’ve been driving up and down this road for three hours hoping to see you, Sergeant Barnes. But I didn’t really expect I ever would – I thought you’d follow that route I marked on your map, though.’
‘I didn’t expect to see you either,’ Barnes replied grimly.
‘You amazed me when I saw Reynolds in that cab – it is a German transporter, isn’t it?’
His face looked chalk-white, although it might have been the light of the beams, and his voice was harsh and strained.
‘Yes, it’s a transporter. What are you doing here, Jacques? You said you were on your way to Abbeville.’
‘A terrible thing has happened. The Germans have shot my sister.’
Had his voice trembled? Barnes thought so, but the fleeting expression of pain was succeeded by an expression of bitterness and hate.