Bastable had a sudden terrifying vision of cornfields filled with tanks. 'More than I've ever seen in my life,' he replied honestly at the top of his voice. 'Dozens of tanks— they looked like hundreds to me, but certainly dozens of them.'
The Sergeant nodded, not disbelievingly.
'What are you doing here?' shouted Bastable. The slap of the tracks on the underside of the carrier made conversation difficult.
'Tryin' to re-establish communications with Brigade, sir,'
shouted the Sergeant. 'They got our wireless trucks—with the bombers, sir.'
Bastable nodded, as one unbombed veteran to another obviously much-bombed one.
'They tried their Stukas on us, sir,' shouted the Sergeant. 'All noise—but they didn't hit anything, and we got two of 'em with the Brens. But then they clobbered us with the big boogers—gave us a right goin' over.'
Bastable nodded again. The Stukas were the dive-bombers, whose hideous screech had reached Colembert briefly the previous afternoon. But he had heard nothing of them since dummy4
then.
'We're going to RV with Mr Greystock and Corporal Titchener, sir,' shouted the Sergeant, lifting his map meaningfully. This was the difference between the Professionals and the Amateurs, thought Bastable, remembering Wimpy's regrets for their lack of a map: these men knew where they were going as well as what they were doing.
But he also had to remember what he was doing. That was also the beginning of professionalism.
'You can drop me off on the main road, Sergeant.' He wondered bleakly what had happened to Wimpy. 'I must report back to my battalion.'
The Sergeant merely acknowledged that decision with a nod.
Professionalism was also the acceptance of another man's duty, without argument—that was another lesson learned: precautions, but no panic, no running away blindly in the most convenient direction without knowing where one was going.
And 'Darkie', the driver, was a very skilful operator too, he decided, as the carrier hugged the hillsides and slipped through each natural gap in the countryside, as though Darkie knew every hump and hollow in it like the geography of a NAAFI girl's body in the dark behind his billet.
'Not much further now, sir.' The Sergeant pointed to another copse ahead of them, alongside the stream they'd been dummy4
following for the last quarter of a mile.
Bastable followed the line of the Sergeant's finger, and saw a Bren carrier like their own snugged under the overhanging foliage at the edge of the copse.
Darkie swung the carrier expertly round alongside the waiting machine.
A very young subaltern, who reminded Bastable of his own new Christopher Chichester, hailed them crisply. 'Good work, Sergeant Hobday—' his eye registered Bastable quickly, and the absence of a third face he knew —'you've had some trouble?'
'Armoured car, sir, Mr Greystock. They're pretty thick on the ground there, to the north—motor-cyclists too. No way through there, I'm afraid.' He looked his officer squarely in the eye. 'Corporal Titchener, sir—?'
'Won't be coming with us any more, Sergeant... Who's your passenger?'
Bastable stood up. 'Harry Bastable, Prince Regent's Own, Mr Greystock. From Colembert-les-Deux-Ponts— Territorial battalion.'
'He was trying to get through to us, sir,' explained Sergeant Hobday. 'Met up with the Jerries, farm buildings 883768 and the fields north-east of there, so far as I can make out.'
'Oh, indeed?' The subaltern glanced down at his own map-case for a second or two, then up at Bastable enquiringly. 'In strength, I take it, Captain?'
dummy4
It was a merciful question, thought Bastable. All those serried ranks of armoured vehicle could have been a regiment, or a brigade, or God only knew what—it had looked like a whole army to him.
He nodded. 'A lot more than I had time to count. They looked like the Grand National under starter's orders.' He had never seen the Grand National, except on the Pathe News, but that was the image which sprang to mind, horses transmuted into tanks waiting for the signal to spring forward to crash through every obstacle ahead.
The subaltern nodded back at him, wonderfully cool and composed in face of such bleak news. 'So they should be here pretty soon, I shouldn't wonder? Well—thank you, Captain ...
So we'd better tear ourselves away, back to Belleme ... south first, for choice, back among those poor devils of refugees.
With a bit of luck they'll steer clear of them now that they don't need them—is that anywhere near where you want to go?'
'That'll suit me fine.' Bastable tried hard to echo the composure and courage. 'I must get back to Colembert, and I can walk from there.'
'Jolly good!' The subaltern smiled. 'Right then, Sergeant—
follow me!'
The Sergeant gave Bastable a half-nod, half-smile, half as though to reassure him that everything was all right now, half to register his own pride and confidence in his officer for the benefit of a stranger. When he could win that sort of look dummy4
