'Stop!' shouted Tanner. Then, trying frantically to remember the phrase card he had been given, he added, 'Nous sommes anglais! Nous sommes anglais/' He raised his rifle with its white handkerchief into the air and waved it from side to side. The firing stopped and now he heard voices - French? - from the far side of the river, then from behind him. Still hidden behind the bend in the road, Captain Barclay called, 'Peploe, Tanner, are you all right?' 'Lieutenant Peploe's hit, sir,' Tanner yelled back. The lieutenant's face was ashen and a trickle of blood ran down the side of his right temple. At the side of the helmet there was a hole where a bullet had entered - a glancing blow, but enough to penetrate the steel. Tanner put his ear to Peploe's mouth, heard shallow breathing, then felt for a pulse. Thank God. 'Tanner?' It was Barclay's voice again. To his right, a man was now emerging from a house - thick white moustache, black jacket and cap. He held up his arms. 'Arretez! Arretez votre fusillade/' Carefully Tanner eased off Peploe's helmet and heard something drop.
