Free Scorched Earth by Robert Muchamore Page A

‘I’ve done my share of fighting,’ he said. ‘Happy enough letting some other poor bugger get on with it. And besides, Normandy’s a long way.’
    Henderson faked surprise. ‘From here? Can’t be more than two days’ drive.’
    ‘Tanks are built to ride long distances on trains,’ Scholl explained.
    ‘There’s hardly a train line in northern France that’s not been cut by the resistance,’ Henderson said. ‘That much I do know.’
    ‘A Tiger needs an overhaul every 750km. And although their top speed is good enough, things start to break if you drive at more than fifteen kph over any distance,’ Scholl said. ‘Designers kept adding more and more weight to the Tiger, but the engine struggles to shift it. If they send us to Normandy we’ll be lucky if half the tanks make it without at least one breakdown.’
    ‘And fuel?’ Henderson asked.
    Scholl rocked back on his seat. ‘Why are you so interested?’
    ‘Those beasts must burn a lot of juice,’ Henderson said. ‘And it’d be nice to know you’re gonna be around long enough for me to win my money back.’
    Scholl roared with laughter as he tapped the bundle of francs and reichsmarks inside his jacket. ‘If I hang on to this I’ll lose it to someone,’ Scholl said.
    ‘I’ll take care of it for you,’ Henderson said.
    It wasn’t a great line, but Scholl had drunk a skinful and erupted with laughter. ‘I bet you would,’ he roared. ‘Bet you bloody would, but I’ll get it sent to my sister before you get your hands on it!’
    Henderson wondered how to steer the conversation back towards the fuel situation. ‘I guess there’s worse things than spending a sunny afternoon in a bar,’ he said. ‘But I really need to get back to work.’
    Scholl snorted. ‘I’m not stopping you.’
    ‘No, no!’ Henderson said, waving his hands at the misunderstanding. ‘I’m supposed to be surveying bridges on the road to Amiens, but my truck is bone dry. I’ve heard a rumour that there’s a fuel train coming into town later this week.’
    ‘ You won’t get a drop – our battalion will have priority,’ Scholl said. ‘I don’t know of anything coming by rail, but they’re expecting a dozen road tankers this evening.’
    Henderson smiled. ‘If I made it worth your while, do you think there’s any chance that fifty litres of diesel might find its way into my tank?’
    ‘Why are you so keen to get back to work? Why not stay here and take things easy?’ Scholl asked.
    ‘I like to keep my mind occupied,’ Henderson said. ‘And the poker games get expensive.’
    Henderson wanted to press Scholl further, but at that moment a pistol blast ripped across the room and made him spew red wine down his lapel. The joke about shooting the waiter in the foot had turned real and men of the 108th applauded the shooter as the waiter lay on the floor, moaning in agony.
    ‘Bet you wish you’d hurried up now, you lazy French shit!’ Scholl shouted.
    A woman behind the bar stepped bravely towards her injured colleague and shouted in poor German, ‘All of you – get out, we’re closing.’
    None of the men took any notice until the near-hysterical woman tried dragging the waiter to safety. As she bent forward a soldier grabbed the back of her dress, lifting her into the air as it ripped down the back.
    ‘Forget your boyfriend,’ the man barked, slapping the woman’s arse as the crowd made wolf whistles. ‘Go fetch our drinks.’
    ‘Unless you want your bar smashed up,’ someone added, while another man sadistically kicked the writhing waiter.
    ‘These frogs take our money, but look down their noses at us,’ someone shouted. ‘Let’s smash the place up!’
    Henderson ducked as an empty wine bottle flew through the air and shattered against the back of the bar. More glass broke and tables got tipped over as tank crews began vaulting the bar and helping themselves to bottles of wine.
    ‘It’s like Poland all over again!’ Scholl said happily,