Rose walked beside them leading Pierre by the hand; the dirty little stranger in his queer frock followed along behind.
Howard thought ruefully that somehow, somewhere, he must get him washed.
Not only was he verminous and filthy, but the back of his neck and his clothes were clotted with dried blood from the cut.
They went slowly, as they always did.
From time to time Howard glanced back over his shoulder; the men by the lorry seemed to be sorting out their personal belongings.
Then one of them, the driver, started off across the field towards the south, carrying a small bundle.
The other bent to some task at the lorry.
Then he was up and running from the road towards the driver.
He ran clumsily, stumbling; when he had gone about two hundred yards there was a sharp, crackling explosion.
A sheet of flame shot outwards from the lorry.
Parts of it sailed up into the air and fell on the road and into the fields; then it sunk lower on the road.
A little tongue of fire appeared, and it was in flames.
Ronnie said: 'Coo, Mr Howard. Did it blow up?'
Sheila echoed: 'Did it blow up itself, Mr Howard?'
'Yes,' he said heavily, 'that's what happened.'
A column of thick black smoke rose from it on the road.
He turned away.
'Don't bother about it any more.'
Two miles ahead of him he saw the roofs of Angerville.
The net was practically closed on him now.
With a heavy heart he led the children down the road towards the town.
Chapter 6
I broke into his story and said, a little breathlessly:
'This one's not far off.'
We sat tense in our chairs before the fire, listening to the rising whine of the bomb.
It burst somewhere very near, and in the rumble of the falling debris we heard another falling, closer still.
We sat absolutely motionless as the club rocked to the explosion and the glass crashed from the windows, and the whine of the third bomb grew shrill.
It burst on the other side of us.
'Straddled,' said old Howard, breaking the tension.
That's all right.'
The fourth bomb of the stick fell farther away; then there was a pause, but for a burst of machine-gun fire.
I got up from my chair and walked out to the corridor.
It was in darkness.
A window leading out on to a little balcony had been blown open. I went out and looked round.
Over towards the city the sky was a deep, cherry red with the glow of the fires.
Around us there was a bright, yellow light from three parachute-flares suspended in the sky; Bren guns and Lewis guns were rattling away at these things in an attempt to shoot them down.
Close at hand, down the street, another fire was getting under way.
I turned, and Howard was at my side.
'Pretty hot tonight,' he said.
I nodded.
'Would you like to go down into the shelter?'
'Are you going?'
'I don't believe it's any safer there than here,' I said.
We went down to the hall to see if there was anything we could do to help.
But there was nothing to be done, and presently we went up to our chairs again beside the fire and poured another glass of the Marsala.
I said: 'Go on with your story.'
He said diffidently: 'I hope I'm not boring you with all this?'
Angerville is a little town on the Paris-Orleans road.
It was about five o'clock when Howard started to walk towards it with the children, a hot, dusty afternoon.
He told me that that was one of the most difficult moments of his life.