Accommodation at Boobers was in bell tents, which the Army contingent had supplied and put up. One at this end of the line and somewhat on its own had been allocated – by Second Lieutenant Tewksbury, Army Service Corps – to McLachlan and Charlie. Stavely was sharing with two other AMs, while Tewksbury had a tent to himself which he explained was also the Orderly Room, and had a field telephone in it which his signalman had wired to a junction-box in the village. Well – hamlet: Boobers was no metropolis. The officers’ mess was a Nissen hut containing a kitchen table and hard chairs – and a stove for warmth; another larger hut was the mess hall for other ranks, and cooking took place in a Nissen that was also the AMs’ and riggers’ workshop.
Facilities, Tewksbury admitted, were limited and somewhat crude. But the place hadn’t been in active commission for several months. Before that it had been used for the assembly of observation balloons and the training of regimental officers in their use. That had been shifted elsewhere now – combined with a parachute training school: the two going naturally in parallel, the soldier pointed out, parachutes having only recently been developed and observation balloons being easy meat for Hun scouts.
‘Perfectly adequate, anyway.’ McLachlan glanced at Charlie for agreement, added, ‘Won’t be here long in any case.’
Charlie put in, ‘What is important – what about (a) hydrogen gas, and (b) petrol?’
‘Both here, sir.’ Tewksbury fingered the flimsy beginnings of a blond moustache. ‘Petty Officer Davies has assumed charge of both, as naval stores. There’s a dump of each, well separated. The gas in bottles arrived only yesterday – a truckload. I’ve put sentries on both. Makes us a bit shorthanded, but…’
‘Thank God for huge mercies. I’d better see Davies right away.’
‘Most immediate thing, sir—’ Tewksbury cut in – ‘is a car’s coming to take you to Ligescourt – 207 Squadron, RFC. Their CO’s expecting you for lunch there.’
‘How very kind of him!’
‘On the ball, too. We’d better get out of fancy dress, though.’
The Sidcot suits were made of a grey waterproof material and fur-lined; boots sheepskin-lined. They hadn’t brought any more gear than they’d thought they absolutely needed, but could hardly travel around looking like creatures from Jupiter or Mars – which one did, in Sidcots. McLachlan had had to bring civvies too – his cyclist’s kit, he called it – but they’d still managed with one smallish kitbag each. Plus McLachlan’s British Warm and Charlie’s and Stavely’s greatcoats, which they’d sat in in their cockpits.
Tewksbury said, ‘I’ll leave you then, sir. Be glad to show you as much as there is to show, when—’
Charlie asked him, ‘Is the car likely to be here soon?’
‘On its way now – according to their duty officer, and it’s only about twenty miles, so…’
‘Be a good chap. Pass the word to PO Davies that I’d like a word?’
They’d set it up pretty well, he thought. Had noticed, in disembarking in the canvas shed after the ship had been walked in, a compressor and a roll of linen tubing beside it – for inflating the ballonets via the scoop inside the shed. Also riggers’ ladders and other gear. They’d have filled a railway truck at least, with that and their smaller gear, and presumably rations, bedding and so forth. Mental note: check supply of engine oil. Although Stavely would probably have done so already. Anyway – all that, and a car already on its way from the Handley-Page squadron, did suggest that time wasn’t being wasted.
Mormal forest tonight, even?
Could yet be snags, of course. Something to which no one had given thought. Excluding chances of the weather going to pot – because one certainly had thought of that, had been thinking of it for the past week, in fact. He buttoned his uniform trousers, sat down to pull on socks and half-boots. He’d decided not to bother bringing collars or tie: a flannel shirt with a submarine sweater over it, reefer over that, was good enough, and would keep one warm. A black pot-bellied iron stove was contributing in that effort very well, meanwhile; there’d be a soldier-batman tending it and bringing them their morning tea and so forth, Tewksbury – ‘OC Boobers’ – had mentioned.
Which suggested they’d be spending at least one night here. Although how he’d know – except that he’d been in contact with 207 Squadron, who for practical purposes might be seen as one’s local authority, their co-operation being virtually essential. Charlie asked McLachlan – thinking of items that might have been forgotten – ‘Did you bring a pump for your bike’s tyres?’
The Marine frowned, thinking about it. A nod, then. ‘Yes. There is a pump on it.’
‘Sure?’
‘I think so. Why?’
‘What about a puncture-repair kit?’
‘Why on earth should—’
‘Pulling your leg, really. Wondering what we may have overlooked, that’s all. Since they seem to have given us all we asked for, and by some miracle got it here in time!’
‘Just in time. We’d have been stuck without the gas, eh?’
He nodded. ‘Petrol one could have scrounged, but gas – yes. Well, might have just managed, but…’
‘You thought it all out very well, Holt. And they’ve implemented it efficiently. All that’s in doubt now are weather prospects, uh?’
PO Davies, a stocky Welshman with a blue jaw and beetling brows, had introduced Charlie to the rest of the RNAS team and was giving him a guided tour of the gas and petrol dumps, and the vehicle supplied from Doullens – property of the Royal Engineers – for moving that heavy stuff around – a five-ton Foden steam-wagon with cast-iron wheels and solid tyres, which Davies said had them all intrigued and competing for a chance to drive it – when the RFC staff car arrived from Ligescourt. Davies had got his scratch team well settled in and organised, Charlie thought. None of them knew what they were here for, except to tend to the ‘black pusher’, which had to be going on some mission behind the lines – night-time, otherwise why black dope – but to do what, or when? Tonight, tomorrow night? Or the night after that – start of the moonless period? In the shed, Stavely with assistance from other AMs was conducting a maintenance routine on the engine: oil-change – drums of lubricating oil had been supplied – and new plugs, filters, so forth. All he’d told his helpers was that she had to be on the top line and ready for when she was wanted, which might be any time. In any case he’d wanted to drain the used oil out while it was still warm. Charlie had told PO Davies, ‘In my absence, what Stavely says around the ship is what goes. He knows what’s wanted.’ That was primarily for the ears of Davies’ own leading AM, who looked and sounded like something of a know-all. He told Stavely quietly and privately then, ‘Could be tonight, but I doubt it. I’d guess tomorrow, if the weather looks all right. You’ll refuel her anyway, won’t you. And I’ll tell you all you want to know either this evening or in the morning. OK?’
A shrug. ‘Buggers reckon I’m holdin’ out on ’em. And one of ’em saw the bike…’
The car from Ligescourt was a drab-coloured Humber with RFC roundels on it. McLachlan and Tewksbury were standing by it, and the driver, an RFC corporal, was hurrying back from wherever he’d nipped off to. SSP-7 at this point had been on the ground exactly one hour; time truly was not being wasted.
The corporal saluted, introducing himself. ‘Corporal Plimsoll, sir!’
Charlie smiled, as both he and McLachlan returned the quiveringly military salute with considerably less expenditure of energy. ‘Famous name you bear, Corporal.’
‘Have that, sir.’ A smile that showed missing teeth. He was about five foot four and sounded as if he might have had rusty nails in his larynx. ‘No relation ’owever, far as is known, sir.’ He’d opened the rear door: McLachlan slid in and moved over to make room for Charlie, who’d reassured the corporal with, ‘Sam Plimsoll was only an MP anyway, not a seaman.’ Tewksbury was standing back, signalling to his sentry on the gate. Charlie asked, as they turned out on to the road – sentry presenting arms – ‘D’you know of any recent weather forecast, Corporal?’
‘Only there was snow comin’, then there wasn’t. Good enough flyin’ weather now, sir, wouldn’t you say?’
McLachlan said, ‘Thought you’d have turned left, Corporal.’
‘Could have, sir. But then you’d be in them little lanes windin’ all over. This way it’s halfway to Frévent, turn off right – road as good as this one – carry on a while then right again and through Abbeville.’
‘Twenty miles?’
‘Bit more ’n that, sir. What you was asking, though – I did hear they was reckoning on high winds before much longer. Not always right though, are they?’
Slowing. Right turn coming up. McLachlan said, ‘Talking about high winds – or in some such connection, Holt – you were going to tell me about a colleague of yours named Monk, who I gather came to grief?’
‘Colleague – yes. Never met him, but – yes, certainly did. Gives you an idea what a really strong wind can do if you’re unlucky. This was at Pembroke. SS-42 – on oversea patrol. Flight Lieutenant Monk. He was coming back from a U-boat hunt because of foul weather kicking up very suddenly – put his ship down, or tried to – well, did – got hit by a gust that smashed her into the ground and carried away the port-side suspensions. Not unlike my experience the other day, that first flight at the Scrubs. But Monk’s car was turned upside-down, threw his observer out and cracked the fuel tanks, and she shot up with petrol showering out – on top of everything else having shed the observer’s weight, you see. Monk with no control at all, just hanging on – right up to seven thousand feet.’
The corporal was listening, Charlie saw. Head aslant, ear trained his way. He raised his voice a little. They were driving southwest now, getting through a village where it seemed to be market day. He nodded to McLachlan: ‘Here’s where he really might have started screaming prayers. At that height, the car’s forward suspension gave way. Car then hanging vertically nose-down from the rear suspension. Imagine it. What he did – somehow or other – was transfer himself to the axle of the under-carriage. Ship still climbing meanwhile – into cloud and up to eight or nine thousand feet – where she hung for several hours – believe this or not – before she got sick of it, or maybe gas leaked and she began to come down, accelerating down and then also spinning. How he hung on, no idea, but he did – what’s more, he jumped clear just before she hit the ground. Somewhere in Devon – she’d drifted about a hundred miles. He was knocked about, of course, but—’
‘Lived to tell the tale?’
‘Yes. Nightmares ever after, I’d guess. There’ve been similar incidents – at the Scrubs, actually – an Italian, went up to about seven thousand hanging by his feet – but Monk’s really takes the biscuit. And just imagine – this is the point – with the particular load we’ll have.’ Two females. One elderly and infirm. Charlie shook his head. ‘They don’t have to worry – only wait a while, maybe. I’m not taking any weather risks. Not even if I was told to.’
‘Although with your new techniques…’
‘Not exactly guaranteed effective, and not aimed at coping with high winds either. Monk had the bad luck to be hit by that squall, wire-ropes snapped under the impact, then he had no control at all. Nothing he could have done – nothing I or anyone else could have done.’
‘Might one say he shouldn’t have been in that situation?’
‘He was over the sea when the blow started – only hope was to get home and try to land. If he’d known there was foul weather imminent he wouldn’t have gone out. And as I said, sir, we won’t. If we have to, we’ll wait for decent weather, no matter how long. Incidentally, they rebuilt that ship – SS-42 – renumbered her as 42A, and a year later she went into the sea and drowned both her crew. Not Monk, no…’
Ligescourt. Charlie counted the Handley-Pages lined up outside their hangars. Ten of them. No – nine. If it hadn’t been lunchtime there’d no doubt have been AMs swarming all over them. They were very large aircraft, twin-engined and painted olive-green: sixty feet long, upper wings at least twenty feet from the ground, and a wing-span (he happened to know) of a hundred feet. Some of them had their outer wings folded back. For what purpose, he wondered. Well – access to the engines, maybe. Yes, that would be it. The engines were mounted between the upper and lower wings, so the upper was like a lid quite close above them. Like enormous kites, though. Out of sight now, the end of a hanger intervening, Corporal Plimsoll turning into an area of Nissens and timber huts; he drew up outside one marked ADJUTANT.
‘I was told to bring you ’ere, sirs.’
‘Right.’ Charlie got out on his side, McLachlan on his, Plimsoll having opened that door for him.
‘Thank you, Corporal.’
‘Don’t mention it, sir. Be taking you back to Boobers later.’
He’d got that pronunciation right, Charlie had noted. Might have been a jockey, he guessed. Turning as an RFC officer – captain, equivalent to his own naval rank of lieutenant-burst out of the hut, looking relieved at their having arrived at last. ‘Major McLachlan, and Flight Lieutenant – oh, sorry…’
‘Holt.’
Shaking hands. This was the adjutant. ‘Martingale.’ Shaking hands with McLachlan now. ‘CO’s awaiting you in the mess, gentlemen. Short-cut through here – I’ll lead, shall I?’ Tall, gangling fellow with some missing front teeth and the ribbon of an MC on his tunic. Nodding to the corporal: ‘Back here four o’clock, Plimsoll, what?’
The officers’ mess consisted of two Nissen huts joined together, and the CO – greying hair, burly, with a DSO as well as an MC – was a major by name of Cummings. The mess was crowded and Charlie saw several RNAS uniforms amongst the khaki: 207 had been a naval squadron originally, one of them mentioned. Everyone in sight was drinking half-pints of beer. ‘Suit you, Holt?’ It was already in his hand, but it was what he’d have asked for anyway. There was no flying scheduled for tonight, he heard the CO tell McLachlan; they’d been out last night, hitting Zeppelin sheds at Evere outside Brussels. The defences had been stronger than they’d expected, and – well, not so good – in fact, bloody awful: one plane downed and one back by the skin of its pilot’s teeth with a dead observer/bomb aimer and a badly wounded gunner.
‘Anyway—’ cutting across McLachlan’s commiserations – ‘since we’ll certainly be flying tomorrow night – on your business as well as our own – a night off won’t do anyone any harm. Tomorrow night suit you, will it?’
‘Well – yes…’
Charlie put in: ‘Does the weather look good for it, sir?’
‘As a matter of fact, it does. Whereas for several days thereafter it does not. Lucky, eh?’ A nod. ‘You have your priorities right anyway, Holt. But we’ll get down to the nuts and bolts this afternoon. Let’s put the nose-bags on now.’
They assembled in the maproom, half a dozen of them: Charlie and McLachlan, the CO, the squadron’s operations and intelligence officer – Captain Reynolds – and the two flight commanders, Rudd and Illingworth, both captains. While they were all milling around, chatting, lighting cigarettes or filling pipes, Charlie took a close look at a very large wall-map on which the Front was marked with ribbons – red for Allied trenches, black for German, and another stretch of blue, crossing that almost at right angles, from Doullens eastward and over the lines south of Arras, continuing just a few degrees north of east to pass south of Valenciennes. From there it wasn’t a lot further to Bavay. Cards scotch-taped to the map here and there gave courses and distances. The extent of the blue ribbon gave a first impression of a very long flight, but in fact it would be only – for SSP-7 – about sixty or seventy miles, from Doullens to Bavay; plus as one knew oneself but couldn’t have been shown on this scale, a few more miles to the landing place in the forest where the ‘farm of the Abbess’ was situated. He had the name of that section of forest in his own notes – Bois de la Haute Lanière – and he was going to ask them about the farm – ask this chap Reynolds in his capacity as intelligence officer. Probably wouldn’t know, in which case you were committed to a gamble on that score, too.
Well – you were. The whole thing was a gamble. Great thing was to ignore that, just bat on as if it wasn’t.
Reynolds joined him now. ‘Find your way, d’you reckon?’
‘Might, just about.’ Looking at him sideways: ‘This your artistry?’
‘Well, since you mention it…’
‘Stroke of luck, the coincidence of our course to Bavay and yours on to Namur, eh?’
‘I assumed that was the whole basis of it. Although we could have been going anywhere – diverted and dropped you off, so to speak.’
‘I suppose so. Enormous help anyway, we’re grateful.’ Plain fact was that it had been McLachlan’s committee in London who’d sown the seed, then his own and/or McLachlan’s acceptance and development of the idea at Wormwood Scrubs. Chancy, inventive thinking translated here into reality and – seemingly – making sense. He checked the scale again. ‘Sixty miles for us, or slightly more. Your chaps will have – another fifty?’
‘With this slight dog-leg to pass north of Charleroi – yes. We’ll be attacking Namur from the northwest, d’you see, then legging it for home south of Charleroi. By which time you’ll be tucked away in your forest.’
‘Certainly would hope to be.’
‘I won’t ask doing what.’
‘No. Better not.’
‘But I can take it as fact – as in the guff we had from London via Wing HQ – that you’ll be flying at forty-five mph and you’d be happy at six thousand feet?’
‘Absolutely. Except that once we’ve passed Bavay—’
‘We’ll be going into that, don’t worry. The speed’s ideal, I may say. We fly at ninety, which makes calculations particularly simple – in any given period of time we cover twice the distance you do. And the height’s all right – we’ll fly a bit lower than we usually do, that’s all. Cold up there, mind you!’
‘Brass monkey stuff. Wrapping ’em up warm’s the secret.’ He went back to sit beside McLachlan, conscious of having held things up. The CO was already getting to his feet, beginning immediately with, ‘I’m here only as MC or umpire. Start the ball rolling – ball being in his court, to start with.’ Pointing at Reynolds. ‘Then depending on whether or not his ideas match your requirements—’ he’d glanced at Charlie – ‘well, bound to be some problems – we’re here to iron ’em out, that’s all. All right?’ He’d directed that to McLachlan, and the Marine as it were passed it to Charlie, who nodded. McLachlan explained, ‘I’m only a passenger.’ Cummings said, ‘Intriguing. We might be privileged to hear all about it afterwards. Eh? But now—’ to his SOO – ‘All yours, Reynolds.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ He had a pointer – the sharp end of what had been a billiard cue – and touched Namur with it. ‘Tomorrow night’s target – Namur, railway yard and sidings. Our route from here via Doullens, as shown. Courses are detailed here—’ one of the appended cards of notes – ‘and that’s all straightforward, much as you’d expect.’ Reynolds was addressing the two flight commanders, who probably hadn’t heard of SSP-7 until about forty minutes ago, in their mess. Telling them, ‘As you see here, we’ll be by-passing Charleroi to the north on our way in, returning south of it. Bomb-load same as last night’s, nothing different in any way, crews’ll be briefed tomorrow, five pm. What is different though, is that these officers, Major McLachlan RMLI and Flight Lieutenant Holt RNAS, flying airship SSP-7, will be in the air and to a certain extent in company with us – at least, on the same track – from Doullens to where Holt will be putting his ship down somewhere in the Forêt de Mormal – the Bavay area, that is.’
‘What for?’
‘It’s a special operation, extremely hush-hush, waste of time asking, Rudolph.’ One of the flight commanders: Rudd, Charlie guessed. Reynolds explaining to them, ‘The intention is that our engine noise will cover the airship’s as she goes down to land. Her noise cuts out while ours is still fading eastward, and the hope is that Huns on the ground will assume it’s all part of the same brou-haha – won’t occur to them that an airship might have landed. Heck, why should it, not exactly a common occurrence, is it?’ Looking down at his notes on a clip-board, and adding, ‘A basic of my suggested timing is that Major McLachlan wants as many hours of darkness on the ground as he can get, and for obvious reasons the airship’s got to be up and out of it well before first light. The earlier they can touch down, therefore, the better. I’m suggesting they take off – from Boubers-sur-Canche, by the way – at six pm. All such detail’s up for discussion, of course, when I’ve given you this outline. But – take off at six, say, within minutes they’re over Doullens and on their way up to – I suggest – six thousand feet, and on course, same as ours—’ pointer touching the blue ribbon – ‘to cross the lines south of Arras between six-twenty and six-thirty. I should’ve mentioned, the airship’s speed will be forty-five mph.’ He paused, and asked Charlie, ‘That your maximum, by the way?’
‘Not quite. Not far off it. Engine’s a hundred-horsepower Green, should give us fifty or fifty-two, but it’s been what they call “silenced” – slight loss of power resulting. Forty-five is aimed at leaving me a knot or two in hand, so if we had the wind on her nose, for instance…’
‘Wind will be from the northwest, about fifteen mph.’
Force 4 – ‘Moderate Breeze’, as reckoned on the Beaufort scale. Reckoned on the Beaufort in knots though, not mph, so only just force 4. Reynolds was continuing, ‘Forty-five mph happens to be exactly half our usual cruising speed of ninety. So we can do the sums on our fingers – no long-division, don’t you know.’ Polite chuckle from the CO. ‘What it comes down to is – if we can all accept this timing – the airship takes off at six, climbing to six thousand over Doullens – she climbs faster than we can, incidentally – and this squadron takes off between six-forty and six forty-five, climbing to five thousand.’
Charlie had his notebook and pencil out. So did the two flight commanders. Reynolds referred again to his own notes, and continued, ‘From Doullens to crossing the lines, twenty miles, will take the airship about half an hour, so she’ll be crossing at about six-thirty, and it’ll take us less than fifteen minutes. You’ll see action astern of you, Holt, around seven pip-emma. Action in the form of searchlights, ack-ack and flaming onions.’ Glancing up: ‘Ever see one?’
Shake of the head. ‘I’ve led a very sheltered life.’
‘Nasty things, anyway. Green fireballs – phosphorous – aimed at setting us on fire.’
‘Mind if I raise one point?’ The other flight commander – Illingworth. Reynolds nodded, waited for it, and Illingworth said, ‘Not vital or anything, but five thousand feet’s on the low side, I’d have thought.’
‘Well…’
Charlie offered, ‘What if I went up to six five-hundred?’
‘That’d help, certainly.’
Reynolds said, ‘I was putting you at six because that’s the forecast cloud-level.’
‘Right – but I’m not going to see anything on the ground from that height anyway, so…’
‘You’d see – well, Valenciennes, for instance. Probably Bavay as well. Their blackout’s never all that effective. At least, in the last few weeks—’
‘Six-five would be a lot better.’ Rudd, intervening. ‘It would allow us to stack between five thousand and six thousand.’ He asked Charlie, ‘When you say six thousand five hundred, can we be sure you’d be at that height and no lower?’
‘If that’s what would suit you, yes.’
‘Mightn’t be tempted to come down out of cloud?’
‘Tempted, maybe – but in the circumstances would not.’
‘We sometimes have to climb or dive to get out of searchlights, you see. Diving’s best because it’s quicker, obviously, but we could make our absolute ceiling six thousand anyway.’
‘Fine with me.’
Illingworth concurred. Pipe out of mouth for long enough to say, ‘That’s capital.’ Then on a second thought: ‘Talking about crossing the lines, though – are you assuming you won’t be shot at?’
‘Hoping we won’t. My ship’s painted with black dope, and with the silenced engine we’re inaudible from the ground at five thousand, so – yes, touch wood…’
‘Huns have some sort of detection apparatus – acoustical – that picks us up sure as eggs. Anyway – good luck!’
Reynolds took over again, suggesting to Charlie, ‘From six-five you’re going to have to come down pretty steeply near Bavay, aren’t you – to identify your landing point?’
‘Yes. To start trying to identify it. I’m hoping for some help from you on that, incidentally. We have one large-scale map, but—’
‘I’ll see what I can rout out, presently. Point is, we’ve got to be well clear of you – pass below you and take the lead – south of Bavay, this is, at—’ referring to his notes – ‘seven-twenty. That’s where and when we overtake you. Could be tricky – you needing to get down and our tail-enders perhaps still under you. Having passed Valenciennes – here – where the defences are strong and usually wide awake, we won’t pass more closely than we have to, then passing round Bavay, when—-’
Charlie interrupted with, ‘I’ll be turning up to port about there. Only spitting distance from where I’m aiming to put her down.’
A nod: ‘And so will we be. Turning to port, that is – turn as shown. Which I imagine will suit you because although by this time we’re more or less leaving you to your own devices, you’d like to have the sound of us over the whole of the area you’re going down into – huh?’
‘Suggestion.’ Rudd. Dark, lean-faced, about Charlie’s age. ‘Why don’t I divert away to port with my flight on our own. Rest could hold on, Illy following his nose, and I’d—’
‘You haven’t looked closely at this, Rudolf. It’s a twelve-degree course alteration, put there for reasons already stated: adjustment of course to pass north of Charleroi, but also let’s hope deafening the local Huns, to the benefit of our friends here.’
‘But what if I – me, solo – make a sharper alteration to port at that stage, confuse ’em with an even wider spread of noise off-track, and then rejoin. It’d be the crucial stage for these chaps, wouldn’t it – and no skin off my nose. Twenty-degree diversion from your new course for five minutes, say, then back to rejoin over the next five minutes.’
Reynolds was thinking about it. The CO murmuring to McLachlan, ‘He’s got something there, don’t you think?’ Rudd asking Charlie, ‘Suit you, wouldn’t it?’
‘Certainly would.’
‘Here’s another dodge, then. I’ll fly as number four in my flight, tail-end Charlie, and being last in line I’ll be at the lower end of the stack, nearer five thou’ than six. And cloud-level being at or near six, you’ll have been bumbling along in it blind at least most of the time, but by then you’d be safe as houses coming down to five – and lower. As low as you like – we’ll have gone. Be wanting a sight of the ground, won’t you – praying for a good, close sight of it, I’d imagine. Well, I’ll start my diversion when number one flight leads round on this twelve-degree alteration – meaning I alter by thirty-two degrees – and at the same time I might poop off a Very.’ Looking at Reynolds: ‘Green maybe, for “go ahead”, telling Holt all clear, he can put his ship’s nose down and Bob’s his uncle.’
‘A Very, though…’
‘What the hell. We’re filling the night with our racket, noise drawing away east, east-north-east – what’s one Very light telling anyone?’