located and identified the obstacles in our path - two French farm carts. I don't imagine, Colonel Meyer, that we should allow ourselves to be troubled by such opponents.' He stood up in his turret, erect as a ramrod. 'Meyer, please return to your tank - the advance will continue in the general direction of Amiens.'
Barnes sensed that something was wrong, that this was no normal waking, so he resisted the temptation to open his eyes immediately. He listened. His mind felt muddled and he was vaguely aware that he had been dreaming, dreaming something unpleasant, something to do with the war, but it had receded from his realms of consciousness. He always woke up quickly and now he pushed the dream, the nightmare, away, struggling to grasp where he was.
Where the hell was he? It was very quiet inside the building and he was lying stretched out on his back staring up at a beamed and raftered ceiling far above his head, alarm gripping him as memory surged back. The Blenheims, the long smoke line, the ammunition train, the terrible explosion, a feeling of something tearing into his right shoulder, then oblivion. Still lying on the blanket, his fingers reached up and explored the shoulder, contacting a thick dressing, sticky plaster. Yes, they'd got him, all right. But where was he now - and where were Penn and Reynolds?
He tried to sit up on the blanket and flopped back as a wave of dizziness rolled over him. His head was aching horribly and he felt weak and washed-out, hardly able to concentrate.
Under the dressing his shoulder throbbed and at the pit of his stomach was a sensation of sickness. Tentatively, still lying down, he tested his legs by crooking them at the knee; first the right knee, then the left. They seemed to be in one piece. Now for the arms. He worked them round over the blanket, clenching and unclenching his fingers. As far as he could tell his main handicap was an appalling weakness which had reduced his normally wiry frame to the consistency of a jelly. Turning his head to one side, he saw his boots standing a few feet away, placed neatly together, the toecaps gleaming like black glass. He knew they were his own boots because he recognized a tiny scratch on one toecap, and the sight of these boots heartened him because they had recently been cleaned with great care, which meant that Reynolds must have cleaned them. To take the weight off his shoulder, he moved his body over sideways, lifting his head to examine his quarters. He was inside some kind of outbuilding, probably part of a farm. Yes, in the far corner he could see an old plough and beside it some of their Army kit - a dixie supported on an improvised tripod, suspended over the ashes of a fire, and two enamel mugs. Then he saw something standing against the wall which gave him a bad turn. A German machine-pistol with the magazine protruding below the barrel, its strap coiled in a neat loop.
He tried to stand up to reach the loaded weapon but his legs gave way, so he crawled from under the blanket over his body and wobbled his way across the wooden floor on his knees, naked from the waist upwards. He collapsed as he reached the weapon. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself up on to his knees again, grabbed the pistol by its long barrel and then crawled back to his blankets. Sitting up, he began to examine the machine-pistol, extracting the magazine before he fiddled with the firing mechanism. As he found out how the gun worked it came back to him. Someone had attended to his wound, a man with red cheeks and a bushy white moustache. The same man had given him an injection, he could remember the prick of the needle in his right arm, and later the stranger had come back to re-dress his wound. He could remember that very clearly because he had resented being woken up. But how long had they been inside this place? Six hours? Twelve hours? He looked at his watch and the face was cracked, the hands stopped at 7.45. That would be about the time when the
Barnes sensed that something was wrong, that this was no normal waking, so he resisted the temptation to open his eyes immediately. He listened. His mind felt muddled and he was vaguely aware that he had been dreaming, dreaming something unpleasant, something to do with the war, but it had receded from his realms of consciousness. He always woke up quickly and now he pushed the dream, the nightmare, away, struggling to grasp where he was.
Where the hell was he? It was very quiet inside the building and he was lying stretched out on his back staring up at a beamed and raftered ceiling far above his head, alarm gripping him as memory surged back. The Blenheims, the long smoke line, the ammunition train, the terrible explosion, a feeling of something tearing into his right shoulder, then oblivion. Still lying on the blanket, his fingers reached up and explored the shoulder, contacting a thick dressing, sticky plaster. Yes, they'd got him, all right. But where was he now - and where were Penn and Reynolds?
He tried to sit up on the blanket and flopped back as a wave of dizziness rolled over him. His head was aching horribly and he felt weak and washed-out, hardly able to concentrate.
Under the dressing his shoulder throbbed and at the pit of his stomach was a sensation of sickness. Tentatively, still lying down, he tested his legs by crooking them at the knee; first the right knee, then the left. They seemed to be in one piece. Now for the arms. He worked them round over the blanket, clenching and unclenching his fingers. As far as he could tell his main handicap was an appalling weakness which had reduced his normally wiry frame to the consistency of a jelly. Turning his head to one side, he saw his boots standing a few feet away, placed neatly together, the toecaps gleaming like black glass. He knew they were his own boots because he recognized a tiny scratch on one toecap, and the sight of these boots heartened him because they had recently been cleaned with great care, which meant that Reynolds must have cleaned them. To take the weight off his shoulder, he moved his body over sideways, lifting his head to examine his quarters. He was inside some kind of outbuilding, probably part of a farm. Yes, in the far corner he could see an old plough and beside it some of their Army kit - a dixie supported on an improvised tripod, suspended over the ashes of a fire, and two enamel mugs. Then he saw something standing against the wall which gave him a bad turn. A German machine-pistol with the magazine protruding below the barrel, its strap coiled in a neat loop.
He tried to stand up to reach the loaded weapon but his legs gave way, so he crawled from under the blanket over his body and wobbled his way across the wooden floor on his knees, naked from the waist upwards. He collapsed as he reached the weapon. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself up on to his knees again, grabbed the pistol by its long barrel and then crawled back to his blankets. Sitting up, he began to examine the machine-pistol, extracting the magazine before he fiddled with the firing mechanism. As he found out how the gun worked it came back to him. Someone had attended to his wound, a man with red cheeks and a bushy white moustache. The same man had given him an injection, he could remember the prick of the needle in his right arm, and later the stranger had come back to re-dress his wound. He could remember that very clearly because he had resented being woken up. But how long had they been inside this place? Six hours? Twelve hours? He looked at his watch and the face was cracked, the hands stopped at 7.45. That would be about the time when the
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