Ride Out The Storm by John Harris

worry them, and they’d just lit up when Noble heard a dull rumbling howl and one of the men they’d dropped, standing by the front of the lorry talking to the driver, swung round, his eyes bulging.
    ‘Fighters!’ he screamed.
    The air thickened with the howl of engines and Noble dived for the ditch as the cannon shells flashed along the road. As they caught the lorry, there was a tremendous explosion that blew him head over heels into the ditch where he continued to crouch, his arms over his head, listening to the clang of metal dropping around him. As the engines died away he lifted his head. One of the lorry wheels was still bowling along fifty yards away and the road was littered with stones, pulverised earth and pieces of metal, rubber, canvas and wood round a huge scorch mark.
    The driver and the man talking to him had disappeared in the explosion and the third sprawled in the road, a shredded mess of flesh and clothing. Sergeant Galpin appeared slowly from the cornfield and studied the corpse. ‘Copped it,’ he said.
    They dragged the body off the road but, because the spade had disappeared too, they were unable to bury it and had to leave it in the long grass. Galpin found a few shreds of torn canvas and draped them over it, then he stood and stared down for a moment or two, as though he were conducting a silent burial service of his own.
    As he turned he glanced curiously at Noble who was standing with his mouth open, his eyes glazed as though he were hypnotised. ‘I reckon I’d better get back,’ he said. ‘That last pair we dropped have got a radio.’
    Noble watched him go. The sun was blazing hot and, apart from the intermittent sound of gunfire to the south, the countryside immediately around him seemed still empty and alien. His feet ached and, now that the sergeant had left him, he was totally and irrevocably lost.

    So was Clarence Sievewright. But there was no feeling of alarm or panic in his heart. He was a placid man who considered himself well fitted by training to deal with emergencies. As a Scout he had once worn badges to prove he was an expert at a thousand and one important things and he felt he was capable of facing anything the war might throw up. His face was round and innocent and he glowed with soap and inner health. Over such smooth features a helmet seemed almost too ferocious.
    He had spent the night in a barn which had been comfortable enough, if a little chilly, and that morning he’d gone to the farm nearby to ask for food. It had been deserted, so he’d hunted round the yard and eventually – as he’d expected – found a dozen eggs under a hedge which he’d fried in his mess-tin lid. Afterwards, since Scout Law demanded cleanliness, he’d washed at the pump and brushed his teeth, taking care not to swallow the water because he also knew that it was probably not safe unless boiled, then he’d carefully changed his socks and set off again. Now, five hours later, he was wondering where the British army had got to. He knew it was in retreat and before he’d set off he’d heard it was heading towards the coast. If he walked steadily northwards, he should eventually find it again. He had no compass but as a Scout he knew that if he kept the sun on his back up to midday and on his left after that he’d be heading in the correct direction. Speed and lightness had seemed important, however, and he’d sat down to see what he could discard of his equipment. To his surprise, all he felt able to throw away were two or three paperbacks, a selection of thin socks and a pair of dancing shoes he’d had sent out.
    By this time, he’d left the roads and taken to the fields because it had long since occurred to him that if the Germans were machine-gunning the roads, the most intelligent thing to do was to avoid them. By mid-morning, he was beginning to feel hungry again but, finding a few potatoes and carrots in a field, he stuffed several in his pack with the intention of cooking them