‘Sounds as though he’d like a word with us,’ said Colburn.
‘I’m sure he would,’ replied Barnes grimly.
‘I don’t see how they could have cottoned on to us.’
‘The road-block we smashed up. Someone must have sounded the alarm and sent this lot after us.’
Reynolds glanced in the rear-view mirror. ‘He’s going to try and pass us.’
‘Don’t let him.’
So Reynolds had started weaving the giant vehicle backwards and forwards across the road, blocking the track’s path each time it attempted to move up. Colburn had been surprised that they hadn’t opened fire, but Barnes had pointed out that behind the cab stood a tank with a 70-mm armour-plating and that the Germans must realize there was a tank aboard from the shape of the tarpaulin. They must also have realized that machine-pistol fire would scarcely scratch the plating, let alone penetrate the full length of the tank to reach the cab. And that, Barnes supposed, was why they were so anxious to pass – so that they could send a blast of bullets into the cab from the front. It couldn’t go on like this much longer, he was quite sure. They had to do something about that truck. He explained his plan briefly to them and then he opened the door and threw it back flat against the side of the transporter. The horn behind them was still blowing like a banshee. He went out backwards, holding on to the upper door frame while his right foot stepped inside the metal climbing rung. Looped over his shoulder, the machine-pistol didn’t help his balance and at the speed they were travelling the wind velocity buffeted bis body like a minor hurricane and tried to tear him away from his precarious grip. He stayed there for a second and wondered whether he was in full view of the truck, but the tarpaulin-shrouded tank was acting as a screen. Very carefully he sent his left foot out into space, feeling for the deck behind the cab. The foot felt nothing as the transporter lurched sideways and he nearly came off. There were too many things to cope with at once – keeping his grip, anticipating the violent swerves of the transporter, feeling around for the deck – and all the time the wind rush tore savagely at his body. This was worse, far worse, then he had expected. It was taking him all his time to hang on. Then his shoulder wound began to throb viciously and suddenly he felt dizzy and his head started to swim. That decided him. All or nothing. Gritting his teeth he made a supreme effort, lifting his left leg high, bringing it down where the deck should be. His foot hammered down on hard flat wood. He let go with his left hand and grabbed for die tarpaulin rope, praying that it was firmly attached to the rear of the cab. He pulled at the rope and when it held firm he let go with his right hand, his whole weight suspended from the rope now. At that moment the transporter swerved again and the violence of the momentum hurled him outwards.
His body described a complete arc of a hundred and eighty degrees, his left foot pivoting under him, his hand sliding down the rope, then his body slammed back against the tank with fearful impact and he ended up facing outwards, still clutching the rope with only his left hand as his right foot scrabbled for a hold on the deck. For several seconds he hung there helplessly, dazed with pain because when the swing of the arc had brought him round to crash backwards against the covered hull the first point of impact which took the shock was his wounded shoulder. Waves of dizziness trembled through his brain, a feeling of sickness welled up, and beyond it all the guns boomed, the horn shrieked, and the transporter swayed crazily from side to side. He was done for, he couldn’t summon up enough will-power to do anything but hang on. He fought down the sickness, tasted salty blood in his mouth where he had bitten through his lip, and then he felt Jacques grasp him, one hand round each upper arm. The grip steadied him while he grasped the rope with both hands, hauling himself in between the cab and the rear of the tank. Then, he flopped forward on the canvas over the engine covers and lay quite still, gulping in great breaths of air, desperately fighting for self-control as his wound screamed at him. He was vaguely aware that Jacques was lying beside him next to the turret. And all the time the vehicle swayed insidiously from side to side under him as he tried to push away the feeling that he was blacking out.
It was a terrible struggle to recover quickly, to get his choking breath back to normal, to push under the blinding waves of pain, but two things stimulated his recovery – the rush of fresh air and the insistent shrieking of the horn which continually alerted him of the imminent danger. Telling Jacques to keep flat he forced himself up on his knees, scooping up a ridge of tarpaulin to conceal his position. Then he extracted two spare magazines from his pockets, rested them behind the ridge and lowered himself flat, the machine-pistol next to his shoulder. Clubbing his fist he gave the agreed signal, banging three times on the rear of the cab.
The transporter stopped weaving and pulled over to the right side of the road, still moving at high speed, allowing free access for the truck to pass. I’ve got to get this just right, Barnes told himself. Head down until the exact moment when the covered part of the truck is alongside us – the part which sheltered the troops inside. No need to fire at the driver at once -I want to get the lot – and they won’t shoot at Reynolds from their own cab for fear he swerves into them. He kept his head down and heard the truck coming up as Reynolds drove well into his own lane. The truck was coming up with a roar. He felt the transporter lift slightly as they started going uphill. Now! He flattened the canvas ridge with the gun muzzle and his heart sank – the truck was much farther past than he had expected, the cab already beyond Reynolds, the covered side spread out in front of him. Pressing the trigger he swivelled the gun methodically low down along the canvas wall, just above the wooden side, sweeping the muzzle in slow arcs. Empty! He was ramming in a fresh magazine when Jacques called out: a German soldier peered round the end of the truck, machine-pistol aimed. Barnes fired, the man fell into the road as Barnes swivelled the muzzle back again, his finger pressing steadily on the trigger, a stream of bullets ripping and tearing through the canvas along one continuous strip. At that moment Reynolds took a hand.
The road was climbing an embankment up to a bridge and the driver gave the pre-arranged signal, two long blasts on his own horn. Barnes shouted to Jacques to hold on tight and braced himself for the impact as the transporter began to speed up and edge across the road, moving ahead of the truck as it shifted its course to hit the truck broadside on. They were close to the summit when the German driver lost his nerve, swerving away when the colossus was only inches from him.
Lifting his head Barnes saw the truck spin over sideways, falling from view. As they went over the bridge he heard a muffled thump, a boom, and then flames flared in the night behind them. The petrol tank had gone. The next thing he heard was a terrifying shriek of brakes, the transporter’s brakes.
The view from the cab was frightening. Reynolds had heard the stutter of Barnes’ gun, had concentrated half his attention on that final manoeuvre which had destroyed the truck, then he was sweeping over the bridge at high speed. The road was going down now and he saw what faced him in a flash. Head-, lights blazed on a stone wall dead ahead, a right-hand turn at the bottom. Then the headlights were swinging wildly as he desperately tried to negotiate the unexpected hazard, braking, turning, going straight through the wall with a tremendous smash, the immense weight of the vehicle piercing the wall like butter. The whole transporter shuddered, knocking aside a small tree, skidded across the garden, then it stopped.