The words were barely out of his mouth when bits of tree began to fly, chips blasted off by sustained and accurate rifle fire of an intensity that would make it dangerous for Peter to move into the open.

This was not suppression fire, it was meant to kill, so it was time to take off the gloves. The next burst of fire Cal put into the edge of the wheat field sliced low through the stalks, and as soon as he had emptied the mag he slotted another one home, calling to Peter to move when he fired.

‘How’s your ammo?’ Peter yelled.

‘One in the slot and two mags spare, one I need for my own move back.’

‘Any more available?’

‘There’s a bargeful on the way to the docks.’

‘Time I entered the fray, old boy.’

‘Right,’ Cal replied, smiling at the studied unflappability, which was Peter’s trademark act and it was a performance; having seen him in action he knew him to be a very effective fighter.

Half emerging from behind his tree Peter held the Mauser forward in both hands, spreading his feet to fire, which he did rapidly, inching left as he did so, then scooting away at a crouch as soon as he heard the click of the empty chamber.

He threw himself to the ground and rolled off the road as fire was returned. Covered by the ditch he slotted home the spare mag before crawling back towards the buildings, this while Cal put single shots into the field.

He stopped because the return fire had ceased, which did not indicate to him that the Jeunesses Patriotes would be giving up the fight, more that they were trying to figure out some new manoeuvre to circumvent that burning lorry and the light machine gun fire. Thankfully those two grenades seemed to constitute their entire stock; there had been no repeat.

The sound from behind him of the lorry engine was welcome and he suspected they would hear it too – he had given instructions to gun it up to a screaming pitch for that very purpose. As he heard the note change and the first gear noisily engage, he opened up with single shots again, a spread of fire in an arc designed to curb any response.

In that he failed; the sight of that lorry, lumbering out from behind the nearest building, brought the heaviest volley yet from that wheat field, but nothing struck home till it was already halfway to the bridge, which hinted at frustration and pleased Cal – he hoped what they thought they were seeing was the cargo of weapons they so hankered after disappearing beyond their grasp.

The fire had steadied by the time it lurched onto the bridge, with a multitude of holes appearing in the canvas covering, other shots slamming into the side planking, but in truth the only person at risk was the driver – a separate instruction had been for the others to jog behind the cab or, at a crouch, the wheels, which would give them protection, that enhanced by the bridge parapet.

Within seconds it was out of sight but to the man lying on the roadway it seemed like an hour till the firing ceased. Cal’s mouth was like leather and the acrid smoke that filled the air was affecting his throat. The blocking lorry was still blazing away merrily, the heat consuming the non-wooden parts of the vehicle, the tyres especially, which increased the choking smoke.

Yet it was obvious the height of the inferno was past as most of the fuel had been consumed. It would burn for a long time yet and the smoke might increase with the tyres smouldering, but it was diminishing as a blockage and might, in fact, provide cover for an advance.

It was time for him to depart as well, though that was the tricky bit; while he could use the trees as cover to get close to the bridge, he would have to come out into the open to get on to the crossing and for several seconds, even moving flat out, he would be exposed. Even an idiot would know where to concentrate their fire; every weapon that could be brought to bear would be aimed at that gap between the last tree and the low stone parapet.

A glance across the canal showed that swimming was not an option; the bank opposite was too steep to get out, and while he might be offered assistance from those who had already crossed, it was not aid he could count on. His instructions had been for the lorry to go on and for Peter to wait by the car, so it was too risky to hope anyone else might anticipate a need he had not thought to include.

Taking the last spare magazine from the backpack he stuffed it into his shirt, flinching slightly as the cold metal touched his hot sweating skin. Then, grabbing the handle of the ZB26, he tossed the backpack head-high and out into the open, moving as soon as the first shots began to rip it to shreds, thankful he was not facing any kind of automatic weapon; the worst he could suffer was a second bullet from a bolt-action rifle and it took a moment to work that, even for a professional soldier.

Also he hoped for an element of surprise, which is not conducive to good aiming, especially in the untrained. There was no time to go round the parapet and no thought of hurt as he dived over it, landing on his shoulder and immediately hauling himself up, ignoring the scrapes to skin and the painful jarring of bone. He rested the muzzle on the top of the stones and put half a dozen bullets into the wheat field as a warning for his opponents to stay still.

Crouched down he counted to ten, then raised himself again to fire off another short burst to create the impression he was going to hold this new position. In reality he was crawling away within a second, using his knees and elbows, not easy with the ZB26 as well, to get to a spot where the tree cover was thick enough for him to stand up and run.

Peter Lanchester was beside the idling Simca and the passenger door was open. Within seconds both men were inside and the car was moving, Cal holding the light machine gun upright between his knees and breathing as if he had just finished an Olympic marathon while simultaneously reloading.

‘Left-hand fork, Peter,’ he gasped.

‘You sure? The lorry went right.’

‘Yes.’

The car swung round the bend and took only seconds to cover the hundred yards or so Cal Jardine wanted, during which time he had wound down the car window and manoeuvred the muzzle out, forced to lean back so it was resting on the sill. With trees on both sides of the canal and the still-billowing smoke, what he was looking for was not fully visible until he was right abreast the main target at the front.

Slowly and deliberately he put several bullets into the front wheel of the Hispano-Suiza roadster, shredding the tyre in the process, before shifting to blast the cars lined up behind, this as Peter, unbidden, drove the car at low speed so all Cal had to do was work the trigger.

His last bullets he saved for the rear vehicle of the Jeunesses’s convoy, a low-slung cream and black Citroën. This he shredded from one end to the other, tyres included, and, as soon as the magazine emptied, Peter pressed the accelerator to the floor, with Cal dropping back into the seat exhausted.

It took a second or two to get his breathing back to something like normal, but soon he was pointing out to his companion that, narrow and empty as it was, he was driving dangerously by going too fast as well as being on the wrong side of the road – just as well, as, before ten minutes had passed, they were forced to pull very hard to the side to let past one rushing police car, soon followed by two more.

The fellow driving the lorry had been told to take himself and his companions home using back roads and to find a way to hide the vehicle. The Simca presented another problem; it was not a model of which there were many about, being a new design and fresh off the production line.

So it was too obvious, given its colour and the fact that it would likely be reported to the authorities, number plate included. They had taken the route that led north to the main highway, then followed that west to the outskirts of town where they stopped to both breathe and consider.