them, that I saw. They’ll be reserving their Boys for the small stuff, after the main course, if Jerry ever gets so far. I tell you, they make our lot look like Boy Scouts, Harry old boy … So the sooner we get in there and find out what’s cooking, the better.’
The damn butterflies were flapping again in Bastable’s guts. ‘You don’t think we ought to get back to battalion?’
‘Not bloody likely!’ Wimpy emitted another snort. ‘We still have to pick up that armour-plating, in case Jerry infiltrates round the side roads . .. And besides, I want to see what’s happening over there. Drive on, Batty!’
Batty Evans remained motionless.
‘Drive on!’ snapped Bastable.
‘Can’t sir,’ said Fusilier Evans. ‘Bloody cart broken down in road.’
‘So there is!’ exclaimed Wimpy. ‘Well—get it out of the way then, man!’
‘Right, sir,’ said Fusilier Evans, bursting open his door.
Without Batty’s huge hunched figure in the way, half the windscreen became suddenly clear—and so was the accuracy of Batty’s statement: a horse drawing a two-wheeled cart had chosen to founder precisely at the junction of the minor road with the major one. And the owners of the horse and cart were now grouped round the horse, attempting to cajole it to rise, while the rest of the traffic crawled round it regardless.
Batty Evans shouldered his way through the family group without attempting to discuss the matter and delivered a vicious kick to the horse.
The horse shuddered—and received an even more vicous kick. The aged owner of the cart remonstrated with Batty, and was sent spinning out of the way with an almost casual backhander. Batty went round to the front and took hold of the horse’s harness alongside its mouth and jerked its head upwards. The horse did not wish to get up, but recognized force majeure : it rose first on to its hind legs, then on to its forelegs, as the only alternative to having its neck broken.
But having stood up, it positively refused to be pulled forward, and not even Batty’s strength could move the combined weight of horse and cart (which, among the latter’s contents included an enormous grandfather clock, Bastable observed).
Batty stood back and pushed his steel helmet back on his head, as though to let the air get to his brain. He stared at the horse for a moment or two, and then lifted his fist threateningly. The horse observed the fist and tried to back away from him.
This was exactly what Batty had wanted (so it seemed to Bastable), because he laid into the terrified creature like Jack Dempsey, first with one fist, then with the other, backing it up until the cart tipped into the ditch at the corner of the road junction. The shafts rose brutally, practically lifting the unfortunate animal’s feet off the ground, while the grandfather clock slithered off the pile of bundles on the cart, landing upright in the ditch with a musical crash.
Batty surveyed his handiwork for two satisfied seconds, and then doubled back to the car. The gears clashed again, and as DPT 912 moved forward Bastable caught a last, heart-rending glimpse of the owner of the cart holding his head in his hands.
‘Well done, Batty,’ said Wimpy. ‘Now—right for Belléme.’
At first it looked as though that was a reasonable order, for the refugees passing at the moment were all on foot, weighed down by suitcases and bundles, and the car was able to nose through them, on to the main road, against the stream.
Then Batty stopped the car abruptly. ‘Never get down through that lot, sir —‘ he stared at the clot of heavier vehicles which was pushing its own way through the people on foot, ‘—the bleeders are jammed solid, sir.’
Wimpy was still standing up in the front, chest and shoulders above the roof. He addressed a French soldier in the passing throng. ‘Ou sont les allemands, soldat?’ he shouted.
The French soldier shrugged and continued to shuffle past. Batty sprang out of the car
The damn butterflies were flapping again in Bastable’s guts. ‘You don’t think we ought to get back to battalion?’
‘Not bloody likely!’ Wimpy emitted another snort. ‘We still have to pick up that armour-plating, in case Jerry infiltrates round the side roads . .. And besides, I want to see what’s happening over there. Drive on, Batty!’
Batty Evans remained motionless.
‘Drive on!’ snapped Bastable.
‘Can’t sir,’ said Fusilier Evans. ‘Bloody cart broken down in road.’
‘So there is!’ exclaimed Wimpy. ‘Well—get it out of the way then, man!’
‘Right, sir,’ said Fusilier Evans, bursting open his door.
Without Batty’s huge hunched figure in the way, half the windscreen became suddenly clear—and so was the accuracy of Batty’s statement: a horse drawing a two-wheeled cart had chosen to founder precisely at the junction of the minor road with the major one. And the owners of the horse and cart were now grouped round the horse, attempting to cajole it to rise, while the rest of the traffic crawled round it regardless.
Batty Evans shouldered his way through the family group without attempting to discuss the matter and delivered a vicious kick to the horse.
The horse shuddered—and received an even more vicous kick. The aged owner of the cart remonstrated with Batty, and was sent spinning out of the way with an almost casual backhander. Batty went round to the front and took hold of the horse’s harness alongside its mouth and jerked its head upwards. The horse did not wish to get up, but recognized force majeure : it rose first on to its hind legs, then on to its forelegs, as the only alternative to having its neck broken.
But having stood up, it positively refused to be pulled forward, and not even Batty’s strength could move the combined weight of horse and cart (which, among the latter’s contents included an enormous grandfather clock, Bastable observed).
Batty stood back and pushed his steel helmet back on his head, as though to let the air get to his brain. He stared at the horse for a moment or two, and then lifted his fist threateningly. The horse observed the fist and tried to back away from him.
This was exactly what Batty had wanted (so it seemed to Bastable), because he laid into the terrified creature like Jack Dempsey, first with one fist, then with the other, backing it up until the cart tipped into the ditch at the corner of the road junction. The shafts rose brutally, practically lifting the unfortunate animal’s feet off the ground, while the grandfather clock slithered off the pile of bundles on the cart, landing upright in the ditch with a musical crash.
Batty surveyed his handiwork for two satisfied seconds, and then doubled back to the car. The gears clashed again, and as DPT 912 moved forward Bastable caught a last, heart-rending glimpse of the owner of the cart holding his head in his hands.
‘Well done, Batty,’ said Wimpy. ‘Now—right for Belléme.’
At first it looked as though that was a reasonable order, for the refugees passing at the moment were all on foot, weighed down by suitcases and bundles, and the car was able to nose through them, on to the main road, against the stream.
Then Batty stopped the car abruptly. ‘Never get down through that lot, sir —‘ he stared at the clot of heavier vehicles which was pushing its own way through the people on foot, ‘—the bleeders are jammed solid, sir.’
Wimpy was still standing up in the front, chest and shoulders above the roof. He addressed a French soldier in the passing throng. ‘Ou sont les allemands, soldat?’ he shouted.
The French soldier shrugged and continued to shuffle past. Batty sprang out of the car
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