Last Man to Die. Michael Dobbs
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barrels dancing nervously and could sense the fingers tightening around the triggers. As he throttled back and put the gears in neutral, Hencke’s hand went to his throat, checking that the uniform he was wearing was properly buttoned. No surrender. Never that. There was too much at stake. He would try to bluff it out.
‘Sergeant Cheval, Fourth Royal Quebec,’ he snapped. God, could they really take his accent for a French Canadian? But don’t wait and see – grab the initiative! ‘Who’s in charge?’
The rifles were still pointing at him, but some were beginning to waver in uncertainty. He began to study the men behind the muzzles; only two were in uniform, the rest were in an assortment of crumpled civilian clothing with nothing more than armbands for identification. Behind them, strewn amongst the hedgerows, lay several pedal cycles which apart from the battered tractor were their only apparent means of transportation. What luck! He had run into Dad’s Army dragged out of their beds. Perhaps there was a chance, after all …
From behind the line of rifles stepped a man in his sixties armed with a Webley pistol, a fierce look in his eye and a carefully trimmed white moustache. He was the only one wearing a military cap. His uniform was smartly pressed and his boots were immaculate. A veteran, and a man who wore his lieutenant’s shoulder pips with pride, Hencke decided. Still astride the motorcycle, he came to a salute.
‘Lieutenant, I am Sergeant Cheval of the Fourth Quebec,’ he repeated the introduction. ‘My regiment is guarding the camp.’
The Webley was still pointing straight at him and there was a bead of nervous perspiration across the bridge of the lieutenant’s nose, but to the officer’s rear Hencke could see the barrels of several rifles beginning to droop towards the ground.
‘Less than two miles down the road there are thirty escaped Germans,’ Hencke continued, waving behind him in the general direction of the north of England. The look of ferocity in the officer’s eye had changed to one of suspicion and he was about to aim a flood of questions which Hencke knew he had no chance of withstanding. ‘Many of them are armed. They’ve already killed several of my company!’
At this point the rifle barrels were raised once more in anxiety; this time they were pointing not at Hencke but back down the road. The lieutenant’s lips were working away in agitation beneath his moustache. He was being overwhelmed by Hencke’s news and the responsibility which had suddenly been thrust upon him after so many years of waiting, like the fishes, for an invasion which had never come. He had the rank but he couldn’t match the experience suggested by Hencke’s regular army uniform. He had a thousand questions to ask but could find the words for none of them.
‘Lieutenant, the Germans are headed in this direction, they’re not far behind. You must maintain your position here and be ready while I go and warn headquarters.’ It was all so ludicrously makeshift. He hadn’t the slightest idea where headquarters were located, but he supposed they must lie somewhere to the other side of the road block. That was enough. He began gently to rev the bike engine, testing the officer’s resolve. ‘And remember. They’re dangerous!’
For the first time the lieutenant’s eyes left him and began staring in the direction from which Hencke had appeared. The ferocity had gone; there was only anxiety left, and by the time he had dragged his attention back from the distant woodland the moment for making decisions was past. The Norton was already on the move.
‘Good luck, Lieutenant,’ Hencke shouted above the noise of the engine as he weaved around the tractor and the line of men. Their rifles were at shoulder level once more while their boots scratched nervously away at the pavement, trying to find a solid firing position. When Hencke looked behind him he could see a long row of backs. Only the officer was looking in his direction, the agonies of uncertainty twisting his face. But already it was too late …
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