again, this time with astonishing speed: it was as though he had been coiled up into it like a spring waiting to be released—Bastable had never seen him move so fast. Before the astonished French soldier could react Batty had him pinioned against the radiator, facing Wimpy.
‘Answer the officer when he speaks to you, you cheeky fucker!’ he howled in that unnatural voice of his, which anger raised to a hoarse treble.
Bastable had just about understood Wimpy’s first French phrase—it was one of those in his private notebook of French phrases, in which ‘ou est’ and ‘ou sont’ were basic openers, with ‘combien’ and ‘je ne comprends pas’ close behind, and ‘allemand’ as essential as ‘français’. But the French language in general had been almost as much of a crucifixion to him at school as Latin, and the Frenchman’s replies to Wimpy’s questions—punctuated as those replies were by gasps of pain every time Batty encouraged him to speak up—were quite beyond him, only serving to remind him that it was useless to learn questions if one couldn’t make head-nor-tail of the answers.
‘All right—let the blighter go, Batty,’ said Wimpy finally.
‘Sir!’ howled Batty, propelling the Frenchman westwards with a contemptuous kick.
There came a loud hooting from the vehicles they had delayed, while the smaller fry on two wheels and two feet had flowed round them. Batty turned towards the sound, feet apart, hands on hips, like a one-man roadblock.
‘What did he say?’ asked Bastable.
‘He said …’ Wimpy tailed off as lie surveyed the scene. ‘Now if we go straight on, on to that other side road ahead, we can take the first turning to the right, and maybe get to Beléme by one of the back roads …’
That obviously hadn’t been what the French soldier had said; Wimpy was merely thinking aloud, trying to solve their problem.
‘What did he say?” Bastable fumed impotently among the piled equipment.
‘He said—‘ This time Wimpy bit the answer off. ‘ Batty ! Back into the car double-quick— drive straight on !”
Batty moved back into his seat almost as fast as he had left it, driven by the urgency of the command.
‘ Put your boot down, man !’ Wimpy shouted. ‘ Fast !’
The car juddered forward, scattering the refugees ahead of it as it moved across the main road on to the other, minor arm of the crossroad which matched the narrow road from Colembert by which they had come. There was a crunch of metal as one wing caught the front of a hand-cart piled with possessions. The car checked for a fraction of a second, then the cart overturned, scattered its consents.
‘ Faster !’ shouted Wimpy.
Loud cries of anger and sorrow mingled with the insistent hooting which filled Bastable’s ears. Then, as though released from all restraint, the little engine roared into life under Batty’s boot and the car shot away down the empty, dusty side road, throwing Bastable against the rear seat and tipping his helmet over his eyes.
‘What the devil—?’ Bastable swore, grabbing for the strap Lord Austin had thoughtfully supplied for nervous passengers and trying to pull himself upright.
‘Messerschmitts!’ snapped Wimpy.
‘What?’ Bastable twisted to peer out of the rear window, but the road was an impenetrable dust cloud behind them.
‘Square wing-tips—remember ‘em from the aircraft recognition posters. Quite unmistakable—saw ‘em banking—make for those trees ahead, Batty.’ He was back below roof level now. ‘Hurricanes are rounded, Spitfires are pointed —Messerschmitts are square—the wing tips. Saw ‘em turning .. . Nearly there— don ’ t slow down, Batty !’
Bastable had never seen a German aircraft for absolutely certain. During the last thirty-six hours plenty of aircraft had flown over Colembert, but always too far away or too high up to be identified beyond doubt, and even though the self-styled experts had all agreed that these had been enemy
‘Answer the officer when he speaks to you, you cheeky fucker!’ he howled in that unnatural voice of his, which anger raised to a hoarse treble.
Bastable had just about understood Wimpy’s first French phrase—it was one of those in his private notebook of French phrases, in which ‘ou est’ and ‘ou sont’ were basic openers, with ‘combien’ and ‘je ne comprends pas’ close behind, and ‘allemand’ as essential as ‘français’. But the French language in general had been almost as much of a crucifixion to him at school as Latin, and the Frenchman’s replies to Wimpy’s questions—punctuated as those replies were by gasps of pain every time Batty encouraged him to speak up—were quite beyond him, only serving to remind him that it was useless to learn questions if one couldn’t make head-nor-tail of the answers.
‘All right—let the blighter go, Batty,’ said Wimpy finally.
‘Sir!’ howled Batty, propelling the Frenchman westwards with a contemptuous kick.
There came a loud hooting from the vehicles they had delayed, while the smaller fry on two wheels and two feet had flowed round them. Batty turned towards the sound, feet apart, hands on hips, like a one-man roadblock.
‘What did he say?’ asked Bastable.
‘He said …’ Wimpy tailed off as lie surveyed the scene. ‘Now if we go straight on, on to that other side road ahead, we can take the first turning to the right, and maybe get to Beléme by one of the back roads …’
That obviously hadn’t been what the French soldier had said; Wimpy was merely thinking aloud, trying to solve their problem.
‘What did he say?” Bastable fumed impotently among the piled equipment.
‘He said—‘ This time Wimpy bit the answer off. ‘ Batty ! Back into the car double-quick— drive straight on !”
Batty moved back into his seat almost as fast as he had left it, driven by the urgency of the command.
‘ Put your boot down, man !’ Wimpy shouted. ‘ Fast !’
The car juddered forward, scattering the refugees ahead of it as it moved across the main road on to the other, minor arm of the crossroad which matched the narrow road from Colembert by which they had come. There was a crunch of metal as one wing caught the front of a hand-cart piled with possessions. The car checked for a fraction of a second, then the cart overturned, scattered its consents.
‘ Faster !’ shouted Wimpy.
Loud cries of anger and sorrow mingled with the insistent hooting which filled Bastable’s ears. Then, as though released from all restraint, the little engine roared into life under Batty’s boot and the car shot away down the empty, dusty side road, throwing Bastable against the rear seat and tipping his helmet over his eyes.
‘What the devil—?’ Bastable swore, grabbing for the strap Lord Austin had thoughtfully supplied for nervous passengers and trying to pull himself upright.
‘Messerschmitts!’ snapped Wimpy.
‘What?’ Bastable twisted to peer out of the rear window, but the road was an impenetrable dust cloud behind them.
‘Square wing-tips—remember ‘em from the aircraft recognition posters. Quite unmistakable—saw ‘em banking—make for those trees ahead, Batty.’ He was back below roof level now. ‘Hurricanes are rounded, Spitfires are pointed —Messerschmitts are square—the wing tips. Saw ‘em turning .. . Nearly there— don ’ t slow down, Batty !’
Bastable had never seen a German aircraft for absolutely certain. During the last thirty-six hours plenty of aircraft had flown over Colembert, but always too far away or too high up to be identified beyond doubt, and even though the self-styled experts had all agreed that these had been enemy
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