bothering with, even supposing they could find it. Simply, the Prince Regent’s Own was in no condition to go looking for the Germans—and the Germans had no reason to go looking for the Prince Regent’s Own.
‘Sir!’ squeaked Fusilier Evans suddenly. ‘Sir?’
‘What is it, Batty?’ asked Captain Willis testily.
‘Crossroads comin’ up, sir,’ said Fusilier Evans, proving to Captain Bastable that he had more words in his vocabulary than ‘sir’, notwithstanding its variety of nuances.
‘I can’t see any crossroads, Batty,’ said Captain Willis.
‘They’re comin’ up, sir,’ said Fusilier Evans firmly. ‘I recognizes that oak tree, sir. That’s the one, sir.’
‘Which one?’ Captain Willis peered ahead up a hillside bare of trees, hedges and even bushes.
‘Just passed it, sir—big old oak,’ said Fusilier Evans. ‘Dead one, sir. Covered with ivy. Passed it before, I did —crossroads over the top ahead, sir.’
‘Then slow down. Batty,’ said Captain Willis.
‘Sir!’ Batty crashed the Austin’s gears again, decelerating to a snail’s march.
‘Not as slow as that,’ commanded Willis. ‘For God’s sake, Batty— good God Almighty .’
He stopped short as the little car laboured up the final yards of the rise—stopped short so unnaturally that Bastable instinctively craned his neck downwards to peer through the windscreen.
And then he understood why the command had been cut short.
On the morning when he had recovered the ditched, broken-down rations truck on the road to the south of Colembert, Captain Bastable had seen refugees.
There had then been cars, and some trucks, and the occasional horse-drawn cart piled with goods and chattels, an intermittent, but steady stream of them.
But this was different.
They had been gradually lifting up, undulation after undulation, from the river bottom of Colembert—what stream or river it was, he didn’t know, from those two unimportant bridges.
But now they were at last on the top land of this French plain, where the main road ran east-west through the cornfields—the road they had planned to join —
Turn right, then five miles on, and we ’ re there, Batty —
Five miles—craning left and right through the little Austin’s windows—left and centre and right—he could almost see for five miles …
He could see miles of every imaginable variety of vehicle — lorries and trucks and cars and horse-drawn carts and hand-carts and bicycles and push-carts and prams, piled high with trunks and bags and cases and sacks and mattresses and bedsteads and and people—
People walking and riding and leading and following, and being earned and led and pushed and pulled, old and young, men and women —
This was totally and terrifyingly different from what he had seen on the southern road twenty-four hours before, a deluge compared with a trickle, for which the trickle hadn’t prepared him —
And soldiers!
French soldiers, from their helmets, with blue uniforms dusted to an indeterminate brownish camouflage, shambling along for all the world as though they were refugees too!
‘My God!’ whispered Wimpy. ‘My God! Christ Almighty—what’s happened?’
‘They’re runnin’ away, that’s what,’ said Fusilier Evans.
Bastable pushed the equipment aside again and stared through the side window opposite him. There was a great dirty column of smoke away to the east, where his line of vision and the refugee column converged, and an incessant rumble of explosions.
‘Jerry’s bombing Belléme,’ said Wimpy unnecessarily.
Bastable grunted. It didn’t look like a garden bonfire.
‘It’ll take more than bombers to shift the Mendips,’ said Wimpy. ‘That’s a regular battalion. They’re shit-hot.’
‘I hope they’ve got plenty of .55 armour-piercing,’ said Bastable.
‘Boys ammo?’ Wimpy snorted. ‘When I was there yesterday morning they were emplacing two-pounder anti-tank guns—they’ve got at least three of
‘Sir!’ squeaked Fusilier Evans suddenly. ‘Sir?’
‘What is it, Batty?’ asked Captain Willis testily.
‘Crossroads comin’ up, sir,’ said Fusilier Evans, proving to Captain Bastable that he had more words in his vocabulary than ‘sir’, notwithstanding its variety of nuances.
‘I can’t see any crossroads, Batty,’ said Captain Willis.
‘They’re comin’ up, sir,’ said Fusilier Evans firmly. ‘I recognizes that oak tree, sir. That’s the one, sir.’
‘Which one?’ Captain Willis peered ahead up a hillside bare of trees, hedges and even bushes.
‘Just passed it, sir—big old oak,’ said Fusilier Evans. ‘Dead one, sir. Covered with ivy. Passed it before, I did —crossroads over the top ahead, sir.’
‘Then slow down. Batty,’ said Captain Willis.
‘Sir!’ Batty crashed the Austin’s gears again, decelerating to a snail’s march.
‘Not as slow as that,’ commanded Willis. ‘For God’s sake, Batty— good God Almighty .’
He stopped short as the little car laboured up the final yards of the rise—stopped short so unnaturally that Bastable instinctively craned his neck downwards to peer through the windscreen.
And then he understood why the command had been cut short.
On the morning when he had recovered the ditched, broken-down rations truck on the road to the south of Colembert, Captain Bastable had seen refugees.
There had then been cars, and some trucks, and the occasional horse-drawn cart piled with goods and chattels, an intermittent, but steady stream of them.
But this was different.
They had been gradually lifting up, undulation after undulation, from the river bottom of Colembert—what stream or river it was, he didn’t know, from those two unimportant bridges.
But now they were at last on the top land of this French plain, where the main road ran east-west through the cornfields—the road they had planned to join —
Turn right, then five miles on, and we ’ re there, Batty —
Five miles—craning left and right through the little Austin’s windows—left and centre and right—he could almost see for five miles …
He could see miles of every imaginable variety of vehicle — lorries and trucks and cars and horse-drawn carts and hand-carts and bicycles and push-carts and prams, piled high with trunks and bags and cases and sacks and mattresses and bedsteads and and people—
People walking and riding and leading and following, and being earned and led and pushed and pulled, old and young, men and women —
This was totally and terrifyingly different from what he had seen on the southern road twenty-four hours before, a deluge compared with a trickle, for which the trickle hadn’t prepared him —
And soldiers!
French soldiers, from their helmets, with blue uniforms dusted to an indeterminate brownish camouflage, shambling along for all the world as though they were refugees too!
‘My God!’ whispered Wimpy. ‘My God! Christ Almighty—what’s happened?’
‘They’re runnin’ away, that’s what,’ said Fusilier Evans.
Bastable pushed the equipment aside again and stared through the side window opposite him. There was a great dirty column of smoke away to the east, where his line of vision and the refugee column converged, and an incessant rumble of explosions.
‘Jerry’s bombing Belléme,’ said Wimpy unnecessarily.
Bastable grunted. It didn’t look like a garden bonfire.
‘It’ll take more than bombers to shift the Mendips,’ said Wimpy. ‘That’s a regular battalion. They’re shit-hot.’
‘I hope they’ve got plenty of .55 armour-piercing,’ said Bastable.
‘Boys ammo?’ Wimpy snorted. ‘When I was there yesterday morning they were emplacing two-pounder anti-tank guns—they’ve got at least three of
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