Weaver

XXXII

The fire roared down on the convoy from right and left, shells erupting from the fields and valleys of this folded, claustrophobic country. Once again the vehicles scattered. The Panzergrenadiers went roaring into the countryside, followed by a couple of the tanks, in search of pillboxes and other English defensive positions.

Ernst and the other men in the troop carriers leapt out to take up what positions they could find beside the road. Ernst found himself in a sort of drainage ditch, blocked by crisp autumn leaves; their smoky smell was rich.

'Where do you think we are?' Ernst shouted at Unteroffizier Fischer.

'God knows.' Fischer checked his watch. 'I know where we should be. On the other side of Haywards Heath by now.' He stumbled over the odd English name.

Ernst knew the route, roughly. From Uckfield they had headed west and north. The plan was to follow the A-class roads though Haywards Heath and Horsham and then make the long run up to Guildford. On the map it looked straightforward. But they had run into this sort of resistance as soon as they had left Uckfield.

More fire rained on the vehicles. It didn't come at random. The tank-busting shells were always targeted first at the lead vehicles in the column and the last, leaving the column trapped and ripe for further attack.

'India,' Ernst said.

The Unteroffizier snorted. 'We're going a bit slow, Gefreiter, but we're not that lost.'

'No. I mean, India is where the English learned this tactic, knocking out the lead and rear vehicles. How infantry can strike at a mechanised column. It's just what the Indians used to do to them in the Raj. I picked that up during our training in France.'

Kieser said, 'After the way they fell over at Dunkirk I never thought the English would fight this hard. Inch by bloody inch, eh, boys?'

The Unteroffizier said, 'But we're still rolling, lads, that's the thing to remember. The English are bastards, but we're worse. Right? The column's forming up again. Let's get back in the truck.'

Cautiously Ernst and the others clambered out onto the road surface. The units that had gone scouring into the hillside returned to the road, the burned-out tanks were being shoved aside by the heavy-lift vehicles, and the lorries' engines were coughing to life. A couple more vehicles lost, Ernst thought, and a bit more of their precious fuel used up.

The fuel was surely the crucial factor. The column had had no resupply since a convoy of fuel trucks had come up from the coast before it left Uckfield. There had been none of the supply dumps they had been promised, and not a single filling station had been found to contain a drop of unadulterated petrol. Already the fuel shortage was affecting the operation. Trucks had been abandoned, their tanks siphoned empty and their loads distributed among the surviving vehicles, and the flame tanks, so useful in country like this, had been neutered.

And even as he climbed back up onto the bed of his truck Ernst heard the drone of aircraft engines. The air war over the south coast had been going on all day; occasionally he glimpsed the metallic glint of a plane, or saw the bright colours of tracer fire. But this new engine noise, growing louder, was coming from behind him, from the north. He turned. A flight of Blenheims was sweeping down on the column, like predatory birds. Already the first sticks of bombs were falling from their bellies.

'Oh, shit,' said Kieser wearily.

Commands were barked out. 'Get out! Get to cover!' 'Get those anti-aircraft guns deployed!'

Once again the column had to scatter; once again Ernst found himself in a ditch. The planes were slow, but the convoy had no cover; the Luftwaffe was evidently otherwise engaged.

'Christ!' Kieser shouted. 'How do they know where we are?'

'They've got radio direction finders,' Ernst yelled back. 'That's how they know. And all these bloody partisans in the hills are reporting in every time we take a piss.'

The planes dipped lower, their machine-guns spitting fire, the bombs splashing craters into the road, and men began to scream. Ernst cowered in the dirt, burrowing into English autumn leaves, pulling his helmet low over his head.