Free French Leave by Elizabeth Darrell Page B

carried the smell of rain. Knowing the dry earth offered little anchorage, Dan faced the possibility of losing what shelter he could produce unless he could secure it more surely against the storm winds.
    Fighting a powerful surge of air, shivering in the sudden cold blasts, Dan started the quad bike’s engine and manoeuvred it carefully so that the fat wheels rested on the guy ropes. It did not matter that the pegs broke under the pressure. One side of the canvas was now firmly grounded, and the vehicle itself provided a barrier against the gale.
    Another great thunder clap shook the ground. It was followed by another and another, until it was as if the earth would split open. Lightning flashed into the semi-darkness like an alternating neon sign. Then the deluge began, hammering at the canvas above Dan’s head and blotting out all sight of anything beyond his frail haven.
    An hour passed. The storm appeared to be centred directly above the exercise ground, for the thunder and lightning continued unabated while torrential rain fell like a solid curtain. Dan thought he might as well be sitting in the open. He was wet through, along with everything under canvas that had pulled free from one corner. It was now flapping so forcefully that it threatened to dislodge the corner not held fast by the quad bike.
    Soil that had been baked dry was unable to absorb the amount of rain falling, so it was rushing into mini rivers from any rise in the ground. These were meeting and forming great surges of water seeking an outlet. One of these mini rivers overwhelmed the man huddled beneath inadequate shelter, engulfing him up to his waist and threatening to sweep all before it. Dan had already stowed his gear and supplies in his backpack, and he slipped it on, ready to make a dash for greater cover during a lull in the storm.
    There was no lull, but he moved fast when the water surged over him. The seat on the quad bike provided the only higher perch available to him, but full exposure to the elements was preferable to being swept away.
    During the next half hour the storm moved away, but rain continued lashing down relentlessly. The area around Dan had become a flood plain. Knowing it would be next to impossible to read the map or compass in the heavy downpour, Dan decided to drive to a distant wooded rise, which would be safe to enter now the lightning had ceased.
    The tough vehicle fired up at the second urging. Dan set it in motion with hands that shook with the cold. The quad bike battled powerfully against the impeding flood, but Dan had to constantly wipe his goggles to keep the trees in his sight. It took a good ten minutes to reach the edge of the wood, where he drove through, on to a fire break running straight as far as he could see.
    It was still wet in there, the leafy cover not being dense enough to keep out such heavy rain. Water also lay in this area, but shallower and more static. When Dan left his seat, only his feet were covered. Shrugging off his backpack, he unstrapped it and pulled out his map.
    His attention was otherwise caught, however, when he shifted slightly and his boots encountered something solid. He glanced down and experienced a jolt of excitement. Caught up by the bracken at the foot of a tree was a helmet bearing the badge of the West Wiltshire Regiment. Beside it was an SA80: the rifle used during the recent exercise.

FOUR
    W illiam Fanshawe was a genial, relaxed, modern type of infantry officer, who would surely earn respect and regard from the members of the company he led, Max thought. Dressed in shorts and a white polo shirt on this hot Saturday morning, Fanshawe greeted him without a hint of the reserve Max often encountered in his fellow officers.
    â€˜You’re following up this business of Smith, I imagine. I doubt I can offer anything useful, but come on in.’
    Max followed the sturdy, dark-haired captain who, rumour went, had turned down the chance to play professional cricket for