Tramp in Armour (47 page)

'Six inches' clearance on the other side. Six inches maxi
mum, maybe less.'

'Then we can do it, providing nothing gives when I reverse.'

'It'll take a miracle.'

'Maybe we're entitled to one.'

For the second time Barnes went into reverse, handling the controls with a concentration he had probably never equalled
before, hearing the metal scraping harshly against the wall every inch of the way. But they were moving. The tearing
sound petered out following the painful withdrawal, his heart in his mouth until he saw that they were clear of the imprisoning arch once more. They had to manage it this time. Colburn guided Barnes back a short distance and then gave no further instructions. The change of direction required was so fine that
unless Barnes could
feel
what was needed they would end up
smashing into the other wall.

Gripping the rim he saw the arch corning towards him
again, his torch shining on the right-hand side now to make
sure that Barnes hadn't overdone it again. He ignored the
other wall completely, knowing that if they could move through
with the right-hand track barely scraping the wall they should be able to make it. So great was his concentration on the wall
that Colburn nearly died at that moment. Just in time he
remembered the solid stone arch coming towards his head:
he dived down inside the turret and something brushed the
crown of his head, and as he went down a fresh fear darted
into his mind - would the turret go under the arch? He
reached up a hand and felt his fingers graze stonework as the tank rumbled forward. They were almost through when their nerve ends were seared again as the familiar grinding noise
started. The tank increased speed and they were out in the
open, driving across the field in a weird early morning half-
glow mingled with white mist.

Barnes halted the tank briefly, switched off the engines, and
stood up to listen. The vaporous fog bank was dispersing and
beyond it he detected a staccato mutter which sounded like the
power-drills of a tank repair shop, and beyond that he was
damned sure he could hear the mechanical grumble of Panzers
on the move. With a bit of luck these two background noises
might help to conceal Bert's approach until the very last mo
ment. And now he looked at his watch. 3.48
am.
Twelve
minutes to the Panzer attack.

'The mist's clearing,' said Colburn quietly. 'I can just see
the ammunition hangar. I'll stick it out up here until we get
close and then I'll pop downstairs and observe through the
periscope.'

'If you don't, you'll be dead mutton.'

'And I'll use the Besa when the time comes - machine guns
are my forte. The mist's clearing rapidly. That hangar is dead
ahead. Good luck, Barnes. Advance!'

'Thanks for coming, Colburn. Thanks a lot.' It sounded
trite, horribly trite, but he felt he must say something at this
moment. Sitting down again, he closed the hood.

The tank moved forward rapidly over the level ground,
brushing mist trails aside, picking up more speed every
second. Colburn felt chilled to the bone, scared stiff of what
was coming, but he looked curiously at the high bank which
rose immediately behind the rear of the hangar. The houses
behind the ridge were a faint silhouette of rooftops in the
early morning light. It was from this ridge that Barnes and
Jacques had looked down on the airfield, from here they had
seen the sinister huddles of tanks which comprised the
armoured striking force of the Panzer division which General Storch was about to hurl against Dunkirk. Ahead he could see
the outer defences of the tank laager, a screen of barbed wire
hastily thrown up to cordon off the airfield, and as the pale
glow of the coming day increased he saw beyond the hangar a
score or more of low dark shapes. His heart thumped when he
saw them. Heavy tanks of the 14th Panzer Division. The
laager was in view.

Quickly he gave Barnes an instruction to veer on to a fresh
course which would head him straight for the entrance to the
hangar which they were approaching,broadside on. As to going
below and watching through the periscope, that would be use
less: he'd have to stay in the turret to keep the perfect
observation they needed. He lifted his machine-pistol. As they approached the line of barbed wire Colburn almost forgot the
holocaust which must await them; there was so much to see, to
note. An armoured car parked close to the hangar, the outline
of another vehicle which seemed familiar, signs of movement
over to the left behind the mist. He recognized the vehicle now
- a giant transporter with a tank on its deck. It was then that
he saw the first Germans - small figures on the deck working
by the light of shaded lamps. His hands tightened on the
machine-pistol as the tank rumbled closer and closer. Surely
those men must have seen them, must have heard them com
ing? But as he watched he saw a violet glow and sparks flashed
strangely in the mist. They were using welding equipment and
the sound of their tools had smothered the sound of Bert's
engines. Still there was no indication that they had been
spotted and the line of wire was very close now, coils of mist
like gun-smoke floating behind the tangled network.

It was pure luck that he turned his head in the right direc
tion and saw movement low down on the ground just beyond the wire, fifty yards away to the right. In the deceptive light he made out a square shield, the profile of a long barrel, a barrel
which was swivelling. The barrel of the field piece was travers
ing as though it had not yet locked onto its target. Scrambling
down inside the fighting compartment he jammed himself into the gunner's seat, hugging the shoulder-grip, his hand grasping
the traverse lever. The compartment rotated too fast and too far, so he had to bring it round again, his eye glued to the
telescopic sight. The range was point blank, for field piece as
well as for two-pounder. He had to get his shot in first. The
cross-wires locked on to the shield smudge as he depressed the
barrel a few degrees. He squeezed the trigger and the tank
bucked under the impact of the recoil. God! The explosives! He waited for the tank to disintegrate but it was still grinding
forward. He traversed to find the target and saw a cloud of
white smoke replacing the white mist swirls. Dead on target.
Climbing back up into the turret he looked round quickly. The
tank had reached the wire and then the scratching noises began
as it threshed over the coils. The field piece had vanished
inside the smoke and from now on it all became a kaleidoscope,
for Colburn as he went on speaking to Barnes automatically,
guiding him towards the hangar entrance.

Men had appeared from nowhere, running towards the stationary armoured car. Colburn realized the danger at once
and he raised his machine-pistol and took careful aim. As his finger pulled firmly on the trigger he swivelled the gun. He
swivelled from a point close to the armoured car outwards, so
that his hail of bullets cut them down before they could reach
the vehicle, bringing down three men while a fourth man ran straight into the fusillade, stopping suddenly in mid-stride as
he flung up his arms and fell to the ground. As Colburn inserted
a fresh magazine he gave a direction change. The tank was
still moving forward, passing within inches of the steel-plated
sides of the armoured car, its nose pointed towards a machine gun which had just been manned by a soldier who had darted
out from the shadow of the hangar. Colburn ducked, hearing
bullets spatter the sides of the turret, and the tank accelerated,
its steel bulk thrust forward and driving over man and gun, crushing flesh and metal under its pulverizing tracks.

Their course was now taking them close to the tank trans
porter and Colburn remembered the men who had worked on it.
Pressing the trigger, he swept the deck with a semi-circle of
fire, seeing men falling over the side. He heard a brief burst of
answering fire before another German fell forward after his
machine-pistol had dropped under the tank's tracks. Colburn
knew that he had been hit in the left shoulder, which had sud
denly gone numb. He also realized that he had emptied his
magazine as a capless figure in overalls came out from behind the tank and jumped from the deck on to Bert's hull. Dropping
his machine-pistol on to the ledge he grabbed his revolver as the overalled figure lifted something he held in his hand - a
spanner? - Colburn never knew as he raised his revolver and
shot the German once in the face, saw him topple backwards
and fall under the tracks which ground forward over him. He spoke breathlessly into the mike.

'We're almost there. Keep straight on...'

It was the tanks which worried Barnes. His own kind. He
knew what they were capable of. They had to reach the hangar
entrance before the Germans brought up heavy tanks. Without a loader-operator to re-load the two-pounder Colburn would
never stand a chance against them, even supposing he could hit
one of them if he tried. Down in the tank nose Barnes never
knew about the smashed field piece. He was concentrating on
keeping going. The element of surprise. Ram it down their
bloody throats till the end. He thought they
must
be pretty
close now, close to General Heinrich Storch. Colburn was
coping well. He could hear machine-gun bullets ricocheting
off the hull now, angry metal bees glancing harmlessly off the
armour-plate. Sweat streamed off his face and hands but the
pain had receded as his nerves strung up to fever pitch took
over for one last effort. They'd almost made it. If they were
hit with a shell which penetrated, this lot round him would blow and it ought to take the dump up with it, but he'd like to
be certain, absolutely certain. He wanted Bert in the mouth of
that hangar. Through the slit window he saw men coming
round the end of the building, but had Colburn seen them?
Colburn had seen them. With great difficulty he had inserted a
fresh magazine and now he was slumped forward over the turret, the machine-pistol crooked under his right armpit, his
right hand curled round the trigger as he lifted the muzzle
high. It was like lifting a cannon and the tank seemed to be rocking strangely like a ship in a choppy sea. His left shoulder
was beginning to ache now, a thudding ache which affected his
whole body as though it were being plucked like an immense violin string.

He managed it, he lifted the gun higher and squeezed hard, vibrating the muzzle madly from side to side as he sprayed it
wildly over the running group of men. They collapsed in a
heap, too closely bunched together to spread out in time, only
one man firing a few random shots, so random that they
missed even the tank which was bearing down on them non-stop. Colburn's finger relaxed on the trigger and he slumped forward over the turret rim, still holding on to the pistol, the
weapon now held up between his chest and the rim.

Colburn was still hanging on desperately to consciousness when Barnes reached the end of the hangar, braked his right-
hand track, carrying the tank round on the left-hand track,
advancing several yards again and then stopping in the mouth of the open hangar. Colburn was vaguely aware that they had
arrived and he lifted his head, catching a brief glimpse of the
shell dump, of great stacks of wooden boxes. Then his eyes switched to the next hangar corner which he instinctively felt to be the danger point. A group of helmeted figures ran recklessly round the corner and he operated the gun with one arm
and one hand, swivelling the muzzle as he poured out a hail of
bullets at point-blank range into the compact mass of running
bodies. It became a muddle and a massacre, the front men
falling, the ones behind tripping over their bodies and dying in the subsequent rain of fire. Then his magazine was empty and
he knew that he could never re-load. Beyond the inert bodies he could see a squat dark shape moving from the laager towards him. He whispered down the mike.