Bill went for Hilda, reaching for her throat. He was heavier than she was, and he came at her without warning. He fell forward, knocking her to the ground, his heavy overcoat flapping.
Everybody seemed to be shouting now, Hilda and Bill, the passengers. The Germans hurried forward to grab the man, trying to haul him off Hilda.
And an engine roared. Mary looked across, startled. The bus was pulling out from where it was parked on the verge. 'He said he used to drive buses. Oh, shit.' She ran forward. 'Giles! Don't do it, you'll get yourself killed!'
The Germans had hauled Bill off Hilda, but now they realised what Giles was up to, that Bill had just been distracting them. They ran at the bus, dragging their pistols from their holsters.
Giles was turning the bus around. The German troops in the column actually continued their march, evidently unable to believe what they were seeing. But when Giles gunned the bus straight at them, the marching men scattered, yelling. The first shots were fired, by some of the troopers with the presence of mind to grab their weapons. The windows of the bus shattered, but still it came on.
Mary saw it all. The bus ploughed into the lines of men like a bowling ball into a rack of pins. Some of the troops were knocked aside, some fell under the wheels. One man, grotesquely, got pinned to the bonnet like a bit of cloth, bent over backwards. He was perhaps the first to die when the bus slammed into the tank that followed the line of infantry, or perhaps it was Giles.
The bus's petrol tank exploded, a blossoming fireball. Mary was knocked onto her back.
XXIX
Mary stood with Hilda. They were both smoking. Mary couldn't stop trembling.
The bus passengers stood in a loose group, guarded now by men from the column, who were, Hilda had overheard, elements of the Thirty-fourth Division of the German Ninth Army. Only Bill was kept apart. He was kneeling on the ground, his hands tied behind his back, his face puffy from the blows he had taken.
The Germans were working to fix the mess Giles had made. The column had moved into a defensive formation, the vehicles driven off the road, the heavy weapons deployed, the men taking loose cover in ditches by the side of the road. Engineers from the column were still labouring to bring the fire under control. The heavy vehicles stood by, waiting to shove the wrecks off the road.
The column's medics had set up a field station next to the road. There were seven dead, many more wounded, with broken bones, bashed heads, internal injuries. The dead lay in a short row, covered in blankets. Mary saw that some of the soldiers were unloading shovels from a supply truck; perhaps they meant to bury the dead. They seemed to need a lot of shovels, however.
The column commander, who Hilda thought was the SS equivalent of a colonel, a standartenfuhrer, was a big, cold man in a green Waffen-SS uniform. He was arguing with the bus crew, who were nervously going through some kind of list with him. Mary had no idea what they were talking about, and, numbed by all that had happened, found it hard to care.
Hilda said, 'The funny thing is, my dad would have loathed a man like Giles. He always said the upper-crust types would welcome the Nazis with open arms.'
'Then your dad would have got him wrong. And the Germans, and it cost them.'
'Yes. Any of us could have done what he did, I suppose. I mean it was suicidal, but he got rid of a good few of them, and he's held up this whole column for hours. Seen in that light, it's not a bad exchange for one life.'
'What an awful way to look at it.'
''Take One With You. That's what Churchill has been saying.'
'Excuse me.' It was the SS colonel. He might have been fifty; he wore small round spectacles. He smiled at the passengers. 'If I could have your attention. I am Standartenfuhrer Thyrolf. I must ask you to step back now from the road. We will clear the bus and the tank, and there may be some risk to yourselves.' His English was crisp, heavily accented.
The passengers complied, all save Bill who remained kneeling at the feet of his guards, and they allowed the SS colonel to shepherd them into the field away from the road.
Thyrolf said now, 'Once we have the road cleared the column will move on. We will loan you one of our trucks to take you to your rendezvous with the English. So you see, you will not be too, um, inconvenient? Inconvenienced. One moment, please.' He turned to speak to the bus driver.
Mary felt exhausted, drained by it all. Something in her responded, quite illogically, to the charming manner of this SS colonel. 'He's like a hotel manager. Come to apologise because our room isn't ready.'
Hilda was frowning. 'Something's wrong. Why would he tell us his name?'
Mary took a deep breath. 'It's a relief to be away from the stink of burning fuel. Standing here in this long grass, it all seems a bit absurd, doesn't it?'
There was a discreet cough at her shoulder. It was Thyrolf with the bus driver. 'Mrs Wooler? Mrs Mary Wooler?'
'Yes.'
'And you are also a Mrs Wooler? Hilda Wooler?'
'Yes…'
He turned to Mary. 'Mrs Wooler, may I see your passport?' She produced it from her handbag, and he inspected it as gravely as any customs official. He handed the document back. 'Now you, Mrs Hilda Wooler, are a British subject, but you recently married an American?'
'Not just any American,' Mary said. 'My son the American!'
He laughed, a charming sound. 'Congratulations. You have proof of this?'
Hilda produced her marriage certificate from her gas-mask pouch.
'Very good. If you would both come this way.' Holding Mary's arm lightly, he drew them to the road, where a staff car was waiting. Mary followed, unquestioning.
Hilda hung back. 'What are you doing?'
'The arrangements made for American citizens at Hurst Green have been adjusted. It will be more convenient for you to be carried separately. You can go on now; you do not have to wait. The others, the British, will follow soon after.'
'No.' Hilda stepped back into the crowd of passengers. 'I'll stay here. I'm British. I'm a soldier, for God's sake.'
Mary asked, 'Hilda? What's wrong?'
Thyrolf studied Hilda, his eyes soft behind his glasses. 'You are sure?'
'Yes. Mary – you go.' Hilda looked as if she longed to hug Mary, but she still hung back. 'Look, I won't be long after you. Do you know Tunbridge Wells? I'll see you there. There's a parade called the Pantiles – it has a good tea shop.' She laughed, a brittle sound. 'At least it used to be good, before the war. I'll find you there.'
'It's a date.'
Mary let the SS colonel lead her off the field, back to the road, to the staff car. Overwhelmed by his confident manner, she didn't know what else to do. She had to walk past Bill, the kneeling man. His eyes were swollen from the blows he had taken. But when she walked past, he whispered to her, 'Peter's Well.'
'What?'
'This place. It's called Peter's Well. Remember.' A rifle-butt to the back of the head shut him up.
Thyrolf actually helped her into the staff car. She sat beside the driver and settled her rucksack on her lap. Thyrolf gave her a little salute, and then waved the driver to go.
As the car pulled out, Mary looked back. Soldiers were walking from the column now, towards the passengers. She saw Hilda, her blue uniform and red hair unmistakable. She seemed to have gathered the passengers in a group. She was holding somebody's hand, an elderly man. The group was soon out of sight. Mary thought she heard singing, some mournful song, perhaps a hymn.
Mary's thinking was glacial. Only slowly was she starting to realise what was happening here.
The ripple of shots didn't even sound like gunfire. It was a distant, peaceful noise. The rooks that rose up cawing in response were more disturbing. The singing stopped, however. And then there was a series of isolated pops.
