“Lieutenant?” the man in the coat asked. “I’m going to need to borrow your finest driver.”

“My what?” replied a weasely looking man, glasses perched at the end of his pointy nose, glancing up from the map occupying most of the small table in front of him at the far end of the tent.

“Your finest driver,” the intruder repeated, pushing his way further into the already over-crowded tent; gruffly making his way towards the small, weasely lieutenant. The other officers were either forced to squeeze up against large boxes of ammunition and motor parts or be pushed out into the pounding rain.

It had – as seemed to have become the norm – been raining solidly all day, and it was clear from the state of the heavy canvas coat that only just about covered the large man, he had been out in it for more than a few hours. The coat followed traditional military ethos, so as soon as he was under the admittedly limited shelter offered by the bedraggled and moth-eaten tent, it had done its best to make all those surrounding the wearer as wet as possible; presumably in the assumption that this meant the occupant would at least be the driest person in the room, if not actually dry, as such. Now, suddenly presented with an interesting new target, the rain coat decided to shed as much of its considerable load of moisture in the direction of the map as possible, in a valiant attempt to ruin it utterly.

“And a Jeep,” the coat’s occupant finished.

“Who are you? And why are you in my tent?” asked Lieutenant Weasel, pushing the tiny pair of reading glasses back up his nose, giving his eyes an over-sized, bulging appearance. Of course, the glasses themselves had little power to improve the appearance of the big, damp man in the very wet coat – he was of a seriously muscular build, with a chiselled jaw (it really was one hell of a jaw – the lieutenant suspected that, given an appropriate opportunities, it could be used to crush rocks or batter down castle doors), deep blue eyes and dark hair. In fact, he was almost everything one might expect from the American poster boy that his accent suggested, except in one key regard.

This true-blue American hero type was, well, rather shabby looking. He was covered in as much grime as his coat and uniform – which had both seen much better days – could possibly accommodate and still remain recognizable, and a good fuzz of facial stubble emphasised his unwashed, unkempt appearance. In fact, lieutenant weasel suspected, if it hadn’t been for his remarkable physical presence, it would have been quite easy to mistake him for any of the shiftless, lay-about Yankee invaders he’d been forced to endure back in Blighty, before the big push had come to shove them all into occupied France.

The Lieutenant was not in the best of moods already. He’d been pouring over his maps and charts in what was rapidly turning a fruitless attempt to reconcile their position with the new orders they’d been given. It was clear to him, and indeed most of the command staff crammed into the small tent, that either they themselves were totally lost (which seemed very unlikely), the orders had been mixed up (which seemed very possible) or HQ just didn’t know what the hell was going on (which seemed very probable).

The lieutenant was quickly reaching the conclusion that the proverbial logical ‘end of the tracks’ for this particular train of thought was, in the Lieutenant’s opinion, a very large, and very strong, single malt, followed by a long lie down. Failing that, he would have happily settled for a break in this bloody horrible Belgian weather. So what he most certainly didn’t need now – in fact, probably the one thing he needed least at a time like this – was yet another one of these damned annoying yanks disturbing him; ordering him about like they were personally running the entire war. He’d already had quite enough of those to last him several life-times over.

Unfortunately for Lieutenant weasel, the two stripes on the man’s jacket appeared to indicate that, unfortunately for him, hew was out-ranked by this particular yank. As such, a single, long, rather determined-looking frown would have to suffice by way of voicing all of the above sentiments.

The frown just seemed to bounce resoundingly off the of the helmet of the not inconsiderable man with the not inconsiderable jaw and his heavy rain coat, so instead the Lieutenant resigned himself to doing what the man asked. At least that way he wouldn’t have to struggle with these blasted orders anymore; and of course if he helped him, the yank, the jaw and the coat, might actually go away, and then the Lieutenant would perhaps be free to address the pressing issue of orders – something about a bottle of whisky, he seemed to recall. Stranger things had happened.

The Lieutenant folded away the map before it got any wetter, stood up, and thought about giving a salute. He decided he would let the other man make the first move in this regard. He was pleasantly surprised.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” the yank said, holding out a hand like a frying pan, rather than waiting any longer for the salute that didn’t seem likely to come any time soon. “I’m Captain Sam Taylor, United States Army. Pleased to meet you.”

He saw the Lieutenant eye the hand slightly suspiciously, as if unaccustomed to anything resembling manners from the other side of the pond, but after a short, though noticeable pause, decided shaking it would be for the best. “Lieutenant John Ingram,” he replied, receiving the sort of bone-crushing handshake that could give a man tennis-elbow at 30 paces. “How can I be of assistance?”

Captain Sam Taylor towered over Lieutenant John Ingram, his broad shoulders were at least twice as wide as those of the diminutive Brits’, and yet he felt the smaller man was not intimidated, as such. The taller man managed to radiate an air of self-assured confidence that, far from being oppressive, instead seemed to physically and metaphorically pick the Lieutenant up, until they were staring eye to eye, despite the angle to which the Lieutenant, even when raised to his full height, had to tilt his head in order to even see the Captain’s face.

The Captain did, however, notice Ingram wince at the crushing power of the handshake, although he decided not acknowledge the pained expression, leaving instead the friendly, yet very evident dominance speak for itself. Instead, he simply released the hand and began fishing around somewhere inside his rain coat (which, having now found itself out of range of the map, had decided to start soaking the trouser leg of the very disgruntled looking man to the Captain’s left). What he eventually withdrew from the coat was a rather battered looking piece of paper, along with a fairly short, fat stoogie.

The Captain lit one (he saw the Lieutenant roll his eyes back into his head – apparently he was not a fan of cigar smoke and it certainly would take ages for the smell to clear from the cramped confines of the tent, but the small man said nothing) and handed the other to the Lieutenant. “I think you’ll find these in order,” he said by way of explanation, simultaneously exhaling the first of many great, thick clouds of the cloying, blue-grey smoke.

The Lieutenant coughed, pointedly, and looked at the paper. It had, if the phrase wasn’t rather redundant, clearly been through the wars, however Ingram had recognised it the instant it had emerged from the Captain’s coat. The type of paper was clearly that used by Regimental Command, and in his experience it was normally the harbinger of bad news, which wasn’t something he was going to forget very quickly.

As it turned out, Lt Ingram’s was, on this occasion, disappointed. The orders on the paper were fairly simple – provide Capt. Sam Taylor with what equipment and personnel he requested immediately and without delay, and since all he had requested was a jeep and a driver, the news wasn’t that bad at all. In fact, since he had plenty of both, and they were all sat around idle, the news was almost good.

The Lieutenant relaxed visibly. His unit had been stuck outside of Hamme in Belgium for the best part of the last week and a half, and had eventually decided to hole up in one of the many abandoned and derelict farms dotted throughout the area. The problems they now faced with were two-fold. First were the confusing and contradictory orders – recently they had been told they needed to make their way to aid 3rd Company, who had come under heavy fire a few days previously, and needed field repairs.

Lt. Ingram’s unit was one of a handful of Royal Engineering units assigned to help the allies roll through Belgium as quickly as possible. There were bigger fish to fry on the other side of the border, so clearing out Belgium was seen as that most unwelcome combination of being both low priority, and an unwelcome distraction by the higher ups. Still, it was a job that had to be done, and done properly, otherwise it may come back to bite them all in the arse later on - literally, the Lieutenant suspected, as well as figuratively.

However, the Lieutenant had thought, if was really the case that Belgium was a low priority mission, the situation would have been greatly helped (and indeed the whole operation sped up) if Command had actually made an effort to keep track of where the handful of units assigned to the job were. As far as he could make out, 3rd Battalion were some 200 miles to the South-East of his current position near Bastogne, making them a very unlikely proposition, in his eyes. As such, they had been busy assessing whether they would be better suited to aiding 5th Company, who were just down the road in St-Nikklaas, and then waiting for more appropriate orders, when the Captain had given him something else to think about.

Of course, it was all academic anyway for the foreseeable future. Their second problem – the appalling Belgium weather – had seen to that, since, despite almost the entire unit consisting of vehicles fitted with towing lines and winches, somehow, all of their tracked units had become completely stuck in the mud. It was as if, the Lieutenant had mused, the very weather itself was conspiring to halt their movement, and doing a very effective job.

Just before he returned the crumpled, mangled orders, the Captain saw the Lieutenant notice that the paper had a little extra surprise on it. Despite already carrying the weighty Regimental seal and being signed by Colonel Jacks himself, there was another, still more important signature on the bottom. It was that of Montgomery – the big cheese; hero of North Africa; Field Marshal of the Army of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and Monty to the lads. Captain Taylor absently wondered if he hadn’t gone to far as he saw the Lieutenant’s eyebrow make a valiant bid to join his rapidly receding – the eyebrow said whoever this man was, he’s certainly carrying more than his fair share of clout around with him, so I’d better do as it says. At least, that’s what he hoped it said. If it was really saying that this man is clearly a fraud and I should have him arrested immediately, then all of their days were going to get worse from here on out.

There was a brief pause, before the Lieutenant responded.

“You need a driver?” he eventually confirmed, his eyebrow lowering to its more normal position.

“That’s right.”

“What happened to your last one?”

“He’s dead.”

“You mean he was shot?”

“Er, not quite.”

“Then how did he die? Landmine?”

“No, it was,” The Captain thought quickly. “It was Anaemia.”

“Anaemia? You’re honestly telling me he died of Anaemia?” One of the men in the back, who had ended up in the rain and was therefore rather disgruntled sniggered at this. Both men ignored him.

“Look, Lieutenant.” The Captain took the cigar from his mouth for the first time since it had been lit and blew the latest, greatest cloud of smoke in the Lieutenants direction, making his eyes water. “You gonna help me or not?”

“Certainly, Captain, but I’m trying to assess who would be best suited for the job. When you say you need my best driver, I need to know which one – do you need my fastest, my most skilled or my luckiest?”

The Captain was reminded again why he had thought the man looked like a weasel. He gave off an air of slippery-ness; physically he was slight build, and, despite apparently being quite young, there was an air of age about him - a sense that although his back wasn’t currently hunched, or his head bald, these things were all inevitable in the not too distant future. The Captain breathed in, then returned the stoogie to its home in the corner of his mouth and considered the options he had been given. “I’ll take your luckiest.”

“Ah, you’ll want Reginald then.”

There were several additional sniggers from all around the tent at this, giving the Captain the distinct impression this was going to be something of a raw deal.

“Okay,” he said, simply. “Lead the way, then.”

“What, now?” the Lieutenant exclaimed with a genuine air of surprise.

“Yes,” the Captain explained, as slowly and patiently as he could. “Driver. Jeep. Now.” And then; “Please.” he added, after considering his audience.

“But, it’s raining. Visibility is down to as little as 10 feet and the roads have all turned to mush – you couldn’t possibly go anywhere now, even if you wanted to. I mean, what if you were to come under fire?”

“Well, I guess we would have to fire back, then.” The Captain’s exasperation at the slow progress of this whole conversation was barely hidden. It was all taking far too long, and he was going to start loosing his temper. “All I want, Lieutenant,” he said, the emphasis on the man’s lower rank was not a subtle one. “Is a Jeep, and a man to drive that Jeep. What I do with them once I have them is my concern, not yours.”

The Lieutenant apparently got the message this time and proceeded to put on his coat and cap. Once he was ready, he addressed the man to the Captain’s immediate left who had, apparently, wet himself.

“Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Carry on here, I’ll be 5 minutes.”

“Very well, sir.”

“And do dry yourself off, man.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

The Captain followed the Lieutenant out of the tent past the Sergeant, who shot him an accusatory glance.

-----

“Is Reg in here?”

The man on the barn door snapped to attention. He looked cold, wet and thoroughly miserable. “Yes, sir,” he saluted, trying to cover up the fact that he clearly hadn’t seen the two men approaching at all. The barn itself, much like the other two they had visited, was full to bursting with Jeeps, trucks and groups of men huddled around small stove fires, variously playing illegal games of poker and eating what appeared not to be rations, but ‘requisitioned’ food items, such as chickens.

The Captain stepped inside after the Lieutenant and all the noise coming from within instantly fell to nothing. It was an odd sensation, like a ripple of silence with a hint of guilt radiating out from the Captain and washing across the men. His presence was clearly putting the men ill at ease.

“Reg?” the Lieutenant called into the depths.

There was a short pause.

“Sir?” an indistinct voice replied.

“Got someone for you to meet Reg!”

“Meet, sir? Me, sir?”

“Yes, Reg. You, Reg. Get yourself out here, quick smart.”

There was another pause. This one was much longer, and the Captain began to wonder whether Reg might instead be exiting through the rear of the barn.

Lt. Ingram must have been coming to a similar conclusion. “It’s alright, Reg,” he elaborated. “It’s not the Military Police.”

The waves of tension that had replaced the noise coming from the barn instantly lifted and the men got back to whatever it was they weren’t supposed to be doing. The Captain smiled – he’d found that if there was one universal truth amongst soldiery, it was that, given enough free time, and a sufficiently lax disciplinary environment, they would get up to as much no good as they could.

Illegal distilleries, gambling, thriving black markets – all were suitable possibilities for the sufficiently motivated private. Not that the Captain thought badly of it – even these engineers were fighting men, after all, and they needed some means of relieving tension – he’d run more than the one distillery back when he’d been a private, though it had been in somewhat different circumstances. Maybe, thought the Captain, the Lieutenant isn’t that bad after all. He was, after all, willing to turn something of a blind eye to the goings on of his men.

The man that eventually stepped out of the inner gloom was not what the Captain had been expecting on almost any level. What he’d been anticipating was something of a bruiser of a man. Experience had taught him that the best drivers tended to hail from those parts of cities where the rules of the road are more commonly thought of as guidelines, and that the drivers themselves tended to acquire adjectives like ‘stocky’ and well-built’ in the same way that flames acquired moths.

Reg was almost as opposite to stocky and well-built as it was possible to be – he was slight, fairly tall, quite handsome and wore a fairly pleasant smile on his face. The young man saluted in an orderly fashion.

“Reporting as ordered, sir,” he said, with a noticeable Cornish twang, that the Captain recalled having encountered once before - this man was, well, a bumpkin.

“Lieutenant, is this some sort of joke? I asked for your best driver, not some horse and cart man.”

The Lieutenant didn’t reply, but instead turned to Reg. “It’s alright, Reg, you can stand at ease. Now, tell the Captain about Caen.”

“Caen, sir? What about it?”

“I told the Captain you were our luckiest driver, Reg.”

“Oh, right sir, Caen.”

“Well?” Asked the Captain. His frustration and annoyance was beginning to seep through – after he’d finally thought he’d gotten his message across to the Lieutenant, he was now supposed to believe that this farmer was some sort of legendary driver, despite being barely old enough to even hold a licence.

“Well, sir, it was shortly after the company had landed from England, sir,” he said, addressing the Captain directly.

“Truth be told the crossing had been a little on the rough side, sir. The wind had been blowing a gale and the seas were really up - it was choppy I mean, sir, and the port was rather badly damaged after the whole invasion, so we weren’t able to dock for some time.

“Anyway, quite a lot of the men,” he waved an arm into the barn “were feeling rather the worse for wear after we’d arrived, sir, so I’d been allowed to drive one of the trucks. You see I’m from a family of fishermen, in a little Cornish village and we don’t get sea-sick, sir – the rolling of the waves is in my blood they say, sir. I was going to be a fisherman before the war, sir, and it was because I’d helped rebuild the boat’s engines that I ended up in the Royal Engineers.” The man appeared to be drifting, meandering off into his life story.

“To the point, Reg, there’s a good chap.”

“Ah, yes, sir. Sorry, sir. So as I say, the Lieutenant had let me drive one of the trucks when we first landed and he’d never taken the job off me. I’d only driven the trucks a few times before we were shipped over, so I was a bit green, as they say, and I felt very pleased about it all, sir.

“It was only about a week after we landed that it happened, sir.”

“A week before what happened?” Asked the Captain, despite himself.

“We came under fire, sir. Mortars mainly, but there was some small artillery fire in there too. The Company was being hit really hard, sir – a few direct hits on some of the front vehicles had incapacitated them and blocked the roads, sir. I’m sure you’re familiar with the tactic.”

“But in Normandy? I’d have thought they would make sure the area had been cleared before letting you guys drive through.”

“Well, exactly, sir. That’s what we thought, but it turns out it was something of a cock-up. We’d been sent the wrong way, sir, and had ended up close to a small patch of heavy resistance.

“Well, anyway, sir, it was obvious that there must be a spotter, sir – the fire had been too accurate for there not to be – so I went to find him.”

“Hang on, what do you mean? You went to find him?”

“I got off the road and drove up to where the spotter must have been, sir. It seemed obvious to me where he was, based on the direction the shells had come from and what few vantage points there were.”

“You got off the road and went to find the spotter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell him where he was, Reg.”

“Oh, right, sir, the spotter was in an old barn that happened to be on the crest of a hill. I drove us up there and then the boys piled out and, well, sorted him out, sir – I’m sure you know what I mean.”

“No, Reg, I mean what you drove through.”

“The minefield, sir?”

“You drove through a minefield?!”

“Yes, sir, apparently so, sir. I didn’t know to start of with of course, sir, but it turned out to be a minefield.”

“I see. So that’s why you’re lucky – you drove through a mine field completely unharmed.”

“There’s more, Captain,” explained the Lieutenant

“More?”

“Yes, sir. The lieutenant means how we found out it was a minefield, sir. I drove over one.”

“You drove over one? A mine? Did it not go off?”

“Oh, it went off, sir.”

“Then how come you weren’t killed?”

“Well I only hit it with one of the rear tires, sir, and, well, I had a bit of good fortune.”

“Good fortune?” The Captain was somewhat stunned – was this some kind of elaborate joke? Were they trying to play some sort of convoluted trick on the yank? What could be more fortunate than driving over a mine and surviving?

“Yes, sir. We were hit by a mortar round, sir.”

“And that’s good fortune?”

“In this case, sir, yes. I’m not clear on exactly how it happened, sir, but some men on the road later told me it was the most remarkable thing they’d ever seen, sir. Apparently, the mortar round hit the same back tyre as the mine, at exactly the same time, and the combined blast from the two meant the force of the explosion went away from the vehicle, rather than into it.

“We lost the tyre, of course, but the truck kept going and we were unharmed, sir.”

The Captain didn’t quite know what to say. This was possibly the most preposterous thing he’d ever heard. “I... don’t believe you,” he eventually managed.

“It’s true, Captain,” said the Lieutenant. Oddly, the Captain detected a hint of apology in his tone, as if he was collecting on some wager that the Lieutenant had won through some elaborate trick of logic.

And, despite the fancifulness, the apparent preposterousness of it, the Captain didn’t detect a note of falsehood in either of the two men. Part of him believed it was true, or at least that they were not lying. A larger part of him dismissed the whole thing as some fantasy – a means of fobbing him off with a useless, incompetent driver, though how Reg came to be involved in this way he had yet to determine.

“So you only hit one mine?” he asked. “You drove through an entire minefield and only hit one mine?”

“Yes, sir. The German’s are sticklers for efficiency and I was able to second guess the layout of the minefield from there on.”

This just seemed to be heaping incredulity onto incredulity – he was able to predict the layout of the minefield? That just wasn’t possible.

“Well, I’m not sure if that’s entirely accurate, Captain,” interjected the Lieutenant, turning to look at the Captain, who clearly didn’t believe what he’d just been told. “I’ve had Reg explain it to me several times, but to me it just sounds like blind luck.”

“Smithy?” he called, without turning around.

The private guarding the barn, or rather utterly failing to guard the barn, snapped to attention. He’d been trying to make himself less noticeable, by edging away into the shadows, but the Lieutenant hadn’t forgotten about him.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Smithy, given your recent complete dereliction of duty, if I asked you a question, it wouldn’t be very advisable for you to lie to me, would it, Smithy?”

“Er, no, sir.”

“Very good. In that case, can you confirm what Reg has just told the Captain, for me? Please bear in mind that I am hereby ordering you to tell the absolute, complete and total truth. If you do that, even if it contradicts Reg’s story, I will forget about your little slip of concentration. Smithy? If you lie in any way in your response, I will have you brought up on charges.”

“Yes, sir. Very good, sir. It happened exactly the way Reg outlined it, sir.”

“And where were you at the time?”

“I was on the road, sir. We were boxed in by two Shermans and keeping our heads down, when I saw Reg’s truck bolting across the open field to our right sir.

“It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen, sir. There was this huge double explosion and I thought they were all goners for sure, but then out of the smoke came the truck, still going at full pelt.

“That’s when he started weaving, sir, which made me think he’d been hit by shrapnel or something. I thought another mine would finish the job, but they just kept on going over the hill.”

“And you swear that’s the truth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, and what happened then?”

“Sir?”

“Tell him what happened afterwards – at the end of the day, what you asked me.”

The young man seemed reluctant to continue. “Tell the Captain what you asked me, Private.”

“I requested that I be allowed to ride with Reg, sir,” the Private eventually answered, clearly rather embarrassed.

“And were you the only one with such a request?”

“No, sir. Everyone wanted to ride with Reg.”

“Indeed. And who does ride with Reg, Smithy?”

“You do, sir.”

“That’s right,” smiled the Lieutenant. “Reg is my driver, Captain.”

-----

“Well now, Reg.” They had taken one of the less battered looking Jeeps from the back of the barn and were making their way along the dirt road that lead up and away from the barns and out into the Belgium countryside. The Captain had exchanged his old cigar for a fresh model – this one was somewhat longer and thinner than the previous one, the inconsistency indicating that they were almost certainly the ‘spoils of war’ – and was merrily puffing away, seemingly intent on reducing the visibility inside the vehicle as much as the rain was doing outside.

Reg cracked a window as much as he dared, trying to exhaust the heavy plumes without also drowning himself. It really was raining torrentially hard outside, and Reg was going as fast as he dared, which was certainly much quicker than any rational person might go, but could still only really be classed as slow. The Captain had explained that the dallying with the Lieutenant had made him somewhat late and had asked Reg to go as fast as was possible. Still, he seemed to be fairly pleased with the progress they were now making, and so had relaxed a little.

“Yes, sir?” he replied.

“How old are you Reg?”

“Eighteen, sir.”

The Captain turned and looked at the young man – it seemed about right. “Eighteen, eh? You got a girl back home?”

“Not really, sir.”

“Not really? So that means yes?”

“Well, there is this one girl, sir.”

“And?”

“Well,” Reg said, somewhat embarrassed. But the Captain seemed like a nice enough man, if a little brash and, well, American. “I’ve not really told her how I feel.”

“Oh, you have to tell them how you feel, Reg. Otherwise they don’t know.”

Reg felt he couldn’t really argue with the logic of this, and fell silent for a moment.

“What about you, sir? Is there someone back home?”

The Captain turned to look at Reg, as if the question was somehow totally unexpected and not part of the usual flow of small talk. “Not anymore, Reg,” he replied, eventually. “Not anymore.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Oh, there’s nothing to apologise for, Reg. If it hadn’t been for Charlotte I wouldn’t be here today.”

“Charlotte was your... wife’s name, sir?” Reg hazarded.

“Spot on, Reg, good guess. We were, what’s the phrase? Ah, yes, high-school sweethearts. This was, oh, I don’t know, 20 years back now.”

The large man reclined back into what were perhaps the most uncomfortable chairs in the entire British Army. Quite how they managed to be so unpleasant to sit in, no matter how you arranged your back, bum and legs was something Reg had often thought about during his longer stints behind the wheel. Eventually, he found he reached a kind of equilibrium with them, where his body moulded into a position that accommodated the lumps, bumps and twists of the chairs in an only mildly uncomfortable way, and that merely resulted in complete paralysis at the end of the day.

Although, Reg observed, the Captain seemed to be radiating such a determined level of comfort that his chair looked to have raised the white flag of surrender and bent itself to accommodate his significant frame. Reg thought this was a fairly good analogy for the man himself – it would require a very determined effort not to like the Captain, he thought.

“She was beautiful, Reg. I mean, not cheerleader beautiful, you know, but beautiful where it really counts – inside. She lit up my day, and that’s the God’s honest truth.” The cigar was collected from the side of his mouth at this. Reg had noticed that the cigar was the Captain’s way of emphasising a particular point, whether he was conscious of it or not.

“I just had to look at my Charlotte in the morning and it set me up for the entire day – I’d walk around with a grin on my face so wide people thought I was certifiable. It was like falling in love every single morning, over and over again.”

The cigar returned to its home.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, sir, what happened?”

“She’s not with us anymore, Reg.”

The Captain looked contemplative and Reg felt guilty for prying.

“Reg?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Left here, Reg.”

The turning was almost un-noticeable, in fact until the Captain had said something, Reg hadn’t seen it at all. The road it lead to somehow managed to look even more slippery and muddy than the one they were currently on.

The instruction had come rather late and Reg had to slam on the brakes and yank the wheel as hard and as far as it would go. Still, the road didn’t seem keen to let them get away with making such a sharp turn that easily and Reg felt the Jeep begin to loose traction.

They were on the cusp of an un-controlled slide, but just as the rear wheels were starting to step out, Reg quickly gunned the accelerator, turning it in a controlled, if rather dramatic, slide.

“May get a little rough, sir,” he called above the cacophony of rain, skidding tyres and splattering mud. The Captain simply inhaled on his cigar, his considerable frame anchoring him quite securely in place. Reg, on the other hand, was much lighter and was thrown about as they hit the lumps, bumps and tree branches that covered the road.

They pirouetted around the corner – their momentum determined to take them into the thick undergrowth that lined the side of the road; Reg’s skilfully playing of the accelerator and steering wheel doing it’s best to prevent this from happening. Time seemed to slow, inhaling and holding its breath while it waited to see what the outcome would be. Slowly, gradually it became clear that momentum was going to win. Reg desperately began to turn the wheel the other way and then, suddenly, just as it looked like they might really be done for, they hit something and Reg instinctively yanked on the hand break.

The combined effect seemed to cancel out their momentum and at the same time twist them so that they were facing straight down the new road, travelling at a sedate speed as if nothing had just happened.

The Captain sat up in his seat slightly, looking around - what had they hit? How had the situation flipped so suddenly back in their favour? He leant forward and looked in the side mirror, trying for a glimpse of their apparent saviour.

And then, as they got about 100 yards down the road, he saw it.

“Nice driving, Reg,” the Captain said, smiling and taking the cigar from his mouth. “Lucky about that tree stump.”

The thing that had saved them, it seemed, was a large tree stump that had been jutting out into the middle of the road, presumably dislodged in a mud-slide. Much like the turning, it had been impossible to see as they’d turned the corner only becoming evident when what moonlight there was put it into silhouette.

The mechanics of the situation weren’t clear, but the undeniable fact of the matter was that Reg had apparently gotten them safely around the impossible corner.

“Yes, sir. Though I would appreciate a little more warning next time, sir.”

“Sure, Reg, no problem.” The Captain grinned. Maybe this young chap wasn’t a duffer after all.

Up ahead Reg could see what looked like two figures by the side of the road. “Sir, are they anything to do with you?” he asked, wondering if they were going to be unfortunate enough to get safely around the corner, only to encounter a Nazi patrol.

“That they are, Reg. Pull up, would you?”