'Of course not, sir.'
They passed through the village, Tanner once more replacing his helmet with his field cap. The place seemed deserted; not a light showed. An owl looped in front of them, making Tanner start while Captain Barclay cursed and put a hand to his heart.
They were travelling slowly, only fifteen miles an hour at times, but it was better to drive carefully than crash off the road and damage one or more of the vehicles, yet the slow-going was frustrating. Tanner stared ahead into the night, his eyes strained, and suddenly felt tired. It was always the same: once the excitement of combat had worn off, exhaustion swept over him. And the wiper was doing him no favours with that rhythmic swipe of rubber, back and forth, and a mesmerizing squeak. He shook his head, pinched his leg, and breathed in deeply. 'The air smelled so fresh: rain on dry soil, an evocative aroma that reminded him of his childhood, a summer storm, running for the shelter of the woods and the comforting sound of rain pattering against the leaf canopy.
A few miles on, they crossed a railway line, then reached the small town of Quievrain. It, too, was quiet, but in the town square there were several vehicles: an armoured car and several half-tracks, the black crosses on their sides just visible.
'Christ,' mumbled Barclay. 'What do we do now?'
'Nothing, sir,' said Tanner. As they drove past they saw two men, shoulders hunched under their greatcoats, smoking cigarettes. Tanner waved and they waved back.
'Fortune favours the bold, eh, Tanner?' grinned Peploe.
'More often than not, sir.'
Once through the town, they joined the main road to Valenciennes and, as Tanner had hoped, the going immediately became easier. Soon after, they reached the French border. There was a border post, but it was deserted. Tanner jumped out, lifted the barrier, and they drove on, through quiet and villages. As they passed through another village, Tanner was forced to swerve violently to avoid a refugee family and their loaded cart, but for the most part it seemed that, with the onset of darkness and the arrival of rain, the war had shrunk away. Soldiers had crept into their billets, and refugees had sought shelter, halting their aimless wandering.
Nearing Onnaing, the rain relented and the moon emerged once more, bathing the surrounding countryside in a faint milky monochrome. Tanner saw a garage, white petrol pumps glowing luminously in the dark. Pulling off the road, he drew up alongside them.
'What on earth are you doing, Tanner?' said Barclay. 'Christ, man, we don't want to be stopping.'
'Fuel, sir. We should fill up while we can.' He jumped out of the cab as the others drew up behind him.
'Fuel? We can't just take it,' said Barclay. 'Those pumps will be locked or switched off, surely?'
Tanner walked round the front of the truck to examine them. They were electric rather than manual, but the nozzles were padlocked.
'There,' said Barclay, now out of the truck with Peploe beside him, 'what did I tell you? Come on, we're wasting time and unnecessarily exposing ourselves.'
'Sir, just give me a minute.' Before Barclay could reply, he ran off towards the last truck in the line.
'What's up, Sarge?' said Sykes, as Tanner reached the cab.
'I need you for a moment.'
Sykes followed him back to the pumps where Captain Barclay was still pacing impatiently.
'Come on, Tanner,' said the OC, 'let's get going.'
'Please, sir, just a moment more.' He turned to Sykes. 'Get these padlocks off, will you, Stan?'
'Certainly, Sarge,' said Sykes, casting an apprehensive glance at the captain. Delving into his breast pocket, he pulled out his skeleton key and, in moments, had the first padlock undone. Grinning at Lieutenant Peploe, Tanner took the nozzle and pulled it over to the barrel tank under the seat while Sykes undid the second padlock. The pump rumbled and fuel ran into the tank.
'How the devil did you do that, Corporal?' asked Barclay, clearly baffled.
'An old trick, sir,' said Sykes, then returned to his truck.
'Look, Tanner,' said Peploe, beside him, 'that window up there.' He pointed to the quarters above the garage.
Tanner saw a face peering out nervously through a narrow gap between the curtains. 'He thinks we're Jerries,' he said, as Kershaw drove his truck along the other side of the pumps. 'No wonder the Germans are finding it so easy to roll everyone over. You've only got to mention Stukas or see a black cross and everyone makes a run for it.'
'You have to admit they do seem rather good, though,' said Peploe. 'I mean, look at Poland and Norway.'
'I've seen the newsreels from Poland, sir,' said Tanner, as he replaced the nozzle and stepped back into the cab, Peploe clambering in beside him. He started the Krupp and rolled it forward to allow the next truck to fill up. 'Lots of Stukas and tanks and so on. And I saw pictures of the Polish cavalry too. They were on horseback, waving swords. I reckon any modern army could have beaten them.'
'What about Norway, though?'
'The Norwegians were rather like the Poles only they had even less kit,' Tanner replied. 'We hardly had any guns, any armour and almost no air force. It was easy for the Germans - just a skip across the Baltic. They could keep themselves better supplied. But don't forget it's still going on, sir.'
'We're going to lose there, though, aren't we?'
Tanner took out his packet of German cigarettes, offered one to Peploe, then helped himself. 'All I'm saying, sir,' he said, as Peploe struck a match, 'is that everyone seems to have got it into their heads that the Germans are
