He’d asked Rudd later, talking more or less on their own, ‘What are the chances of Hun fighters interfering?’ and the flight commander’s answer had been, ‘They tend to stick their noses in after we’ve left the lines astern. When ack-ack cuts out, it’s a fair bet the buggers are coming up. Rear gunners’ eyes go out on stalks – well, everyone’s do.’ Short laugh. ‘Amongst any other symptoms. But you’ll still be well ahead at that stage – higher, too. Won’t be you they’re looking for.’
Casting his mind back to yesterday’s confab with the Handley people, partly to stop himself thinking about Amanda and the dream of her from which he’d woken. Not much wanting to drop off again with her in his thoughts and possibly be re-immersed in it. If there was much chance of ‘dropping off’ anyway, with McLachlan’s snorts and snarls coming in bursts from the other side of the tent. Might well have been what had woken him – in a state of relief and happiness, having dreamt that the car-tracks he’d thought he’d seen around her cottage had been part of a more distant dream, thank God, hadn’t ever happened and could be forgotten now, everything between himself and her being as splendid as it had been when they’d said goodbye.
Truly awake then, facing the unpleasant truth that this had been the dream. That if he’d had a camera with him yesterday he could have photographed the damn tracks.
That at this moment – 6 am now on his watch’s luminous dial – that ‘little sporty job’ – if that was what she’d called Caterham’s bloody vehicle – might once again be parked in her yard.
So frustrating that it was actually sickening. Stupid that it should be, but – there it was. Remedy of course being to stick to one’s earlier resolve – concentrate solely on what was happening here and now and in the immediate future around SSP-7. Until one got back there, forget bloody Eastbourne.
Anyway, having asked about Hun fighters – Fokkers, Pfalzes, Albatrosses – and Rudd having pointed out that SSP-7 wouldn’t be their target, he’d added, ‘They’ll be looking for us after we’ve hit Namur, all right. Again, not your problem – even further removed from it, obviously – but it’s the flight home, when the Hun’s dander’s up, that gets a bit hair-raising sometimes. They know where we’ve been, and what we are – therefore where home is – and we’ve no petrol to waste by that time, and no inclination to hang around out there any longer than we have to, so it’s a straight-line course – as it was last night, d’you see?’
‘Yes. So sorry. Only hope and pray this one won’t—’
‘Some of ’em were down to three thousand and less, on the way back. As I was telling you – diving and side-slipping out of searchlights and so forth. They have mobile searchlights now, you know, mounted on tenders, race along below us. Gets to be a real old rough-and-tumble. In fact if you have any impression that we fly straight and level…’
‘I’ll stay well up out of your way, in any case.’
‘You have – what, Lewis guns?’
‘No.’ It embarrassed him slightly to admit it. ‘Carry one Lewis normally, but – not this trip.’
‘No guns at all?’
‘For various reasons, but primarily to save weight, increase what we call “disposable lift”. Again, good reasons to do so. One Lewis with its ammo saves us about forty pounds, and I’ve had the mountings taken out as well. Two mountings, see, shift the gun to either side of the car as needed. But in any case, a single Lewis against those damn things—’
Reynolds, the SOO, had joined them, telling Rudd, ‘He’s relying on floating in unseen and unheard. Shoot not, and ye shall not be shot at.’ He’d shrugged. ‘Reasonably good chance, if the sods don’t even know you’re there. What’s this farm you wanted to know about?’
That hadn’t yielded anything worthwhile. Charlie hadn’t really thought it would. Only by some chance – if a pilot had been shot down in the area and somehow got away or been brought out, for instance. But no such luck. Nor were the maps in Reynold’s files anything like as good as those provided by McLachlan’s people in London. Here in fact they had more photographs than maps, mostly aerial shots of the squadron’s targets, photos taken by day-bombers, DH9s or 4s, on post-attack reconnaissance flights. The day-bombers crossed the lines at 14,000 feet, apparently, and had a much worse time of it than the Handleys – so Rudd had said. Anyway, Charlie had discussed the choice of that clearing in the forest with McLachlan, and they’d decided to chance it. Its advantages were (a) convenience to the village where the women lived, (b) shelter by forest walls from just about any wind direction, and (c) not being overlooked from anywhere except the farm and a couple of hundred yards of minor road. In daylight, the road might be more of a hazard than the farm, in fact – especially if it was used by Hun patrols. But since they’d be in and out of the place in darkness anyway – could not actually contemplate not being up and gone by dawn…
So why the camouflage with yellow dope?
Contingency planning. In case of such a need. As with the ‘voicepipe’, there’d been no time to hang about: what you’d thought you might need you’d had to decide on and either reject or implement at once. Now, incidentally, there could be absolutely no question of still being there in daylight – if only for the rather frightening reason that by dusk on Sunday – tomorrow – winds would be rising from about twenty knots to gale-force.
Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, in fact. He’d copied Reynolds’ forecast into his notebook, and here in the stove-warmed dark, with the Marine’s snoring in the background and a rustle of night air over the tent’s canvas, could see it clearly in his mind’s eye: Light NW breeze DEC 15 veering NE and increasing force 5 by noon 16th, probably 7 to 9 by midnight, gales continuing through 17th-18th.
On the face of it – perhaps – dead lucky. ‘Light Breeze’ being force 2-6 knots say – and force 5 being ‘Moderate Breeze’ in Beaufort scale terminology – around 20 knots – 20 to 24 mph, say. In ordinary naval usage one worked in knots because chart distances came in sea-miles – 2,000 yards instead of 1,760 – but when working with land maps one had to switch to mph. Mental arithmetic thus becoming a frequent if not constant exercise; and a lot of the time one settled for approximations. Anyway, as 207 Squadron’s CO had indicated yesterday at lunchtime, long before the expected increase to force 5 all his Handleys – please God – would be back on the field at Ligescourt. Whereas SSP-7 ought to be back in her shed here at Boobers by first light, if not earlier. Preferably earlier, and in any case, with daylight in the offing not long after seven, you’d reckon to be up and out of that forest at the latest by six. Straight up to six thousand, he thought, staying in or close to cloud, and with the northerly wind probably freshening by that time, steering about due west to make good west-by-south for Doullens. At full throttle, too – an hour and a quarter’s flight maybe, aiming not only to beat the weather but also to stay out of the way of any Hun fighter patrols that might be up there in the dawn.
As long as one could trust that forecast, though. Not have the pattern shifted forward by say twelve hours. Force 5 and rising by midnight tonight instead of noon 16th, for instance.
No reason it should: simply that it could.
He raised some of his night-time thinking with McLachlan over a breakfast of bully beef and fried eggs.
‘What about accommodation for the women when we get them here, sir?’
‘A tent? Our tent, perhaps? Needn’t be long on the ground, need we? And you and I’ll be busy.’ A shrug. ‘You will, anyway.’
‘They might be exhausted – the mother, especially. And the weather could be closing in, you see. This is the point, really – by the time we’ve refuelled, etcetera, wind could be force 5 or more. We could cope with that, but…’
‘How long did it take us to get here?’
‘Two hours and twenty minutes, with a little wind slightly abaft the beam. With a stronger one – perhaps much stronger, and for’ard of the beam – I’d allow an extra half-hour. Best part of three hours. All right, if your end of it goes smoothly – maybe six hours on the ground, say – where we’re going, Malplaquet I’m talking about – might be taking off from there at about two am, say.’
‘Possible – and highly desirable, of course – but not to any extent predictable. Absolutely no way of guessing. Could be easy, could be immensely difficult.’
‘Just guessing, then, for the sake of planning ahead, let’s say take-off about four am. On the ground here then by six. The wind isn’t supposed to get up until midday, but even with no snags at all we’ll need a couple of hours here. Realistically, let’s say take-off for Polegate eight-thirty, nine. Suppose we manage that, and the women are willing and able to re-embark – I’d have thought the mother at any rate would want to put her feet up, get warm, rest, have a square meal, hot bath even – don’t you think a billet in the village might suit them best?’
‘Might suit them, would not suit us. What the daughter’s carrying in her head – well, you know all that. Could save a million lives. To which end, security remains paramount, Holt. No question of letting either of them out in public. Don’t you see – they’ve vanished from under the Germans’ noses but no one can say for certain we’ve got ’em – I mean, that they’re well on their way to England. No – they can have our tent. Or use this hut. Yes, that’s it – Tewksbury can put a couple of camp beds in here. And a sentry on the door. As you said – couple of hours, that’s all.’ Pouring himself more coffee from the enamel jug. ‘You sound less sure of weather prospects than you did yesterday, though. Any particular reason?’
‘Forecasts aren’t always accurate, that’s all. Looks all right now, and touch wood should see us back here all right, but – well, suppose the force 7 hits us by noon instead of midnight? I don’t want to have to land in a gale, even at Polegate. In fact – as I’ve said – I wouldn’t chance it, if that was how it looked. Which would mean—’
‘I can see perfectly well what it’d mean. Several days’ delay. Anyway, this time tomorrow when we’re back here – earlier than this, in fact – we could get an up-to-date forecast from Ligescourt, eh?’
‘Oh, certainly.’
‘And with any luck at all…’
‘Yes. I’m not spreading doom, sir, only thinking ahead a bit. A variation from what’s forecast could even go in our favour.’ He checked the time, and pushed his chair back. ‘Going to see Stavely about a few things now. Including the gas top-up this afternoon. Will you instruct Tewksbury about turning this hut into a ladies’ bedroom, or shall I?’
‘I will. Tell me, though – why a gas top-up when you haven’t used – valved – any?’
‘There’s always some leakage. Valves leak, and to a lesser extent so does the envelope. That’s why we’ll leave it until nearer take-off time.’ He stopped on his way to the door, turned back again. ‘With your agreement, sir, I think I’d better brief Stavely now on where we’re going and what for. And about the Handleys, since we may see some at close quarters?’
McLachlan nodded. ‘But he does not have to know the precise nature of the intelligence the girl’s bringing. That’ll be on the secret list for months yet.’
‘No. Right.’
‘While you’re at it – have him or someone get the bike out for me? Thought I’d go for a spin on it. They say one never forgets how, but…’
‘Make sure its wheels go round, and—’
‘I might ride into Frévent. And best to do that in my civvies – with identity documents ready to hand, naturally. You go ahead, I’ll join you.’
‘Dress rehearsal…’
‘Might call it that. I’ve got to wear a lot of that stuff under my flying-suit, you realise. Holt – another thing to arrange with Tewksbury is rations. Sandwiches, plenty of ’em – not forgetting hungry women. Thermos’s to be filled, too.’
You were down to that sort of detail now. Feeding hungry females, and how frightened, compliant or difficult they might be. Like transporting wild animals… McLachlan was coming with him anyway; clapping him on the shoulder as they left the hut: ‘Amazing to think of ’em going about their daily business, with not an idea in their heads we’re coming for ’em, eh?’
‘Thinking of that, sir – if may ask – are your plans more or less cut and dried? I mean, when we get there and you pedal off to that village…’
‘Neither cut nor dried. I find ’em, tell ’em who I am, explain what an airship is and promise ’em it’s safe – try to sound as if I’m the sort of chap it’s safe to leave home with in the middle of the night – offering mama a piggy-back, perhaps.’
‘On the bike?’
‘Of course not. Shanks’s pony, damnit. How easy or difficult depends on them – their attitude. But the girl’s asked to be brought out, so…’ Both hands raised, fingers crossed. ‘My problem, Holt.’ Striding off towards the tent then, swinging his arms and hugging himself for warmth. Charlie wondering what he’d do if the girl had changed her mind and wouldn’t leave. Or if mama turned hysterical…
Stavely got the bike out, inflated its tyres and oiled it. He’d done all his maintenance work on the Green, riggers had checked the envelope and Eta patches and tensions on the festooning of steel-wire rope, petrol tanks were full and a load of the 10-foot hydrogen bottles were being brought up at this moment on the Foden steam-wagon, he reported. Charlie said, ‘Well done. And now it’s time I let you in on what it’s all in aid of. Held out on you long enough. Reason’s only that until a chap actually needs to know…’
‘Don’t suppose I do, sir, do I?’
‘You’d just get on with it as you have been anyway. Yes, I suppose you would. But—’ he checked, looking around – ‘man’s entitled to know what he’s risking his neck for. What’s more, things could go drastically wrong, you could be left on your own, with no clue what’s best to do… Come on, let’s take a stroll, see ’em bringing up the gas.’ He’d been stuffing a pipe which he’d light when they got outside the shed.
Stavely tapping the bike’s seat with a spanner. ‘He’ll want this putting up or down, likely.’
‘Leave the spanner, he can fix it as he likes. Come on.’
The Foden was already clanking its way slowly over from the far side of the field, and Tewksbury was outside what he called his orderly room, addressing a corporal and half a dozen soldiers armed with spades. Stavely said, ‘Brown-jobs got hundreds o’ them steam wagons, bloke was tellin’ me.’
‘Brown-jobs’ meaning soldiers – the Army. Charlie was putting a match to his pipe: his back to the light breeze, palms cupping the lucifer’s weak flame. He began, ‘Listen now. We’re flying into northern France, Stavely, close to the Belgian border, to collect two women and bring ’em out. One of them – young woman – has some very important intelligence – military information, that is – which London is very, very keen to get, and she’s offered to spill the beans as long as we bring her and her mother away to England. Mother’s old and infirm, couldn’t be got out any other way than this, and the daughter won’t leave her behind. Oh, mother’s English-born, apparently, which puts her in danger somehow, but being crippled – well, the girl could have been smuggled out easily enough, I gather, but…’
‘Know we’re comin’ for ’em, do they?’
‘Apparently not.’
A sideways glance, thick eyebrows raised. Charlie explained, ‘Security. Huns have sharp ears and spies all over. If we could’ve risked it we might have arranged for ground handlers to be there waiting for us. Fact is we couldn’t – might’ve ended up with the wrong kind of reception party, eh?’
‘Huns.’
‘Right.’
‘Major fetchin’ ’em on his bike, is he?’
‘Getting to their village on his bike, yes. From where I hope to put us down – on the edge of a patch of forest – what the practices at Slindon were for, you see – from there to the village is only a couple of miles. From there it’s up to him – he might find a farm-cart, or hoof it with the old girl on his back, whatever. That’s his business – he knows his way around, talks the lingo, and all that. But listen – we may have problems getting the ship down in that place. Forest area, and no ground help, obviously. Hence rope ladders, all that. And I need to do it without valving – the weight of the women to think of. Getting in there, another problem’s our engine noise. From five thousand feet downward, Huns on the ground hearing us, then they’re darned near deafened, and a few minutes later our noise cuts out. Huns asking themselves, what’s this, then? Well – with luck, an airship won’t be the first thing they think of, but anyway we’ve arranged for a squadron of bombers to be passing over at the same time.’
He explained all that: the height SSP-7 would be at, the Handleys overtaking at lower levels, and the Very light that would give him the ‘all clear’. It had all been agreed yesterday at Ligescourt.
‘So when we get down and shut off, we hope our arrival will have been covered by that racket continuing eastward. They’ll be going on to bomb a target fifty miles further on.’
‘Good luck to ’em!’
‘We need some luck too, though. Getting down, as I said, may not be easy – taking off may not be, either. That’s why no Lewis, no weights we could do without. The mother may weigh half a ton, for all I know.’
‘Both of ’em in with the major?’
‘Have to be. Unless you’d like to have one with you?’
‘Heck, no!’
‘Ten to one you’d get the old one anyway. But listen – there are problems all the way along. To be straight with you, it’s bloody chancy. Thing is, though, the information in that girl’s head – as the major was saying half an hour ago – could save a million lives. Could shorten the war – end it, even – or at least make certain the Huns don’t break through before the Yanks have got ’emselves sorted out. What we’re doing’s aimed at getting the lads out of those bloody trenches, eh? One of the million saved could be your brother – Tim, right?’
A grin. ‘Tim’ll be there at finish. Bet your boots.’ A wag of the wide head: ‘Don’t need to bet, flaming will be!’
Charlie had stopped. His pipe had gone out, from so much talking. He and Stavely both watching the Foden’s noisy approach. PO Davies was at its controls, and by the look of him, enjoying himself. Stavely’s certainty meanwhile ringing in one’s ears and imagination: Be there at finish. Bet your boots…
Faith, Charlie thought. What I need.
Thinking then – returning Davies’ cheery salute – write her a letter, for Tewksbury to post if we don’t get back.
McLachlan had had a similar idea, it seemed. Early afternoon now: Charlie had left him and Tewksbury as soon as they’d finished lunch and gone over to the shed to supervise and help with the topping up of gas; came back to find Tewksbury departed and the Marine scratching away at a letter – metal inkpot on the table, bone-handled pen probably also borrowed from the orderly room. Charlie had stopped at their tent to collect his maps and navigational notebook, intending to use the time that was left in memorising courses, distances and ground-patterns which he might recognise if he saw them. He’d have the Aldis for illumination – map-reading, when or if he had to – the lamp in its bracket, down-pointed to contain its powerful beam within the cockpit, but having only two hands and at least a dozen things for them to be doing simultaneously at certain times it was essential to carry as much as possible in one’s head.
McLachlan had his file of operational notes with him too, Charlie saw. Homework for him, then, as well as letters home. Names and addresses in Taisnières and such places, one might suppose. He’d need this map too, when they landed. Charlie told him, pulling a chair up to face him across the table, ‘Your bike’s back in its lashings in the cockpit, sir.’
‘Ah. Good.’ He’d wanted to be sure of not leaving that behind. He’d cycled all round Frévent this morning, and stopped to buy himself a beer in some pub.
‘Writing to—’ Charlie paused – ‘forget the name of the place you mentioned – where the wild geese congregate?’
‘Gullane. Pronounced “Gil’n” but spelt G-U-L-L-A-N-E. It’s also where my son resides. He’s three. Andrew. Hence the clear calligraphy, slow compilation and search for short and simple words. Actually he’s just over three. If some Hun shoots me dead in Malplaquet or Taisnières-sur-Hon—’ he tapped the letter – ‘they’ll give him the gist of this and keep it for him to read for himself when he’s older. Wouldn’t want not to have said goodbye – you know?’
‘No. I’m sure one wouldn’t.’
‘I expect you wrote home before you left, did you?’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t write home much. Any case—’
‘How about the Polegate or Eastbourne roots, then?’
He hesitated. ‘Did think of it, but…’
‘Don’t you think you should? This kind of show, if we did come a cropper, it could be quite a while before news got out. And as she’s presumably not your kin – oh, perhaps she’d hear from them?’
‘Not a chance.’
‘Never the twain shall meet, eh?’
‘Oddly enough they did – years ago. Not in touch now, though.’ He shrugged. ‘Complications. Happens I did think of dropping her a line – and I appreciate the interest and good advice, but—’ he smiled – ‘fact is, sir, I’m counting on bringing us back safe and sound in any case.’
‘I’m sure you will, too. Us plus the – er – freight. Cigarette?’
‘Thanks but—’ pulling out and laying on the table one pipe, tobacco-pouch, matches – ‘if you’ll put up with the stink?’
‘Heavens, man!’
‘Ask a personal question, may I?’
McLachlan looked at him, waited for it, having just picked up his pen.
Charlie asked him, ‘Where your son is – at Gullane – you said they’ll keep your letter for him. Is he not with his mother?’
‘By “they” I mean my sister and my parents. My wife died giving birth to the boy.’
‘Oh – hell, I’m sorry, I—’
‘Perfectly all right. I tend not to talk about it much. Lot of water under the bridge since then, and – one doesn’t much, that’s all.’
‘I’m more than sorry, sir.’
‘No reason you should be. Don’t think about it. I’ll wind this up now, anyway.’ Dipping the pen, but glancing across again. ‘Wind holding steady, is it?’
‘Except there’s snow in it. I was going to say, but—’
‘Actually snow falling?’ Twisting round: the hut’s only window was behind him. ‘Oh. Well – very little. At the moment…’ Left hand moving to touch wood. ‘Do Handley-Pages operate in snow?’
‘I doubt they would in heavy stuff. Stupidly, didn’t think to ask. Shouldn’t imagine that just a flake or two—’
‘We’d be stumped, wouldn’t we, if they were grounded? With the wind that’s forecast for tomorrow.’
‘Mean sitting here those two or three days before going in instead of after. Wouldn’t want that, but if we had to…’
‘You wouldn’t want to go in without the Handleys, either?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. But this could be just a flurry, mightn’t come to anything.’
He didn’t think it would. Not from any Stavely-type faith but because there’d been no mention of snow in that forecast or warning of it during the conference at Ligescourt – which surely there would have been; if it was enough to interrupt their strategic bombing programme, they’d be very much alert to it. McLachlan was back at work on the letter to his son, Charlie unfolding the Bavay district map – McLachlan’s actually, the one he’d need when he set off on his bike – to recheck distances and timings on that final stage. From south of Bavay – two miles south – where you’d get the Very-light signal and start down. These lakes on the approach to a place called la Longueville… There was quite a pattern of lakes there; if there was any moon showing through it might well be visible. Lakes, then a large-ish village. Port rudder there, to NNE, and – two and a half miles. At 45 mph – three minutes?
Checking that. Last three minutes in the air, and low enough maybe to be visible as well as audible. Tense three minutes therefore, and accuracy of navigation rather vital. Thinking about it – only out of the corners of his eyes seeing McLachlan, who’d folded the rather stiff paper he’d been writing on, surreptitiously touch it to his lips before sliding it into an official-looking brown envelope. Careful not to look at him at all now, in fact. And not actually needing to write to Amanda – this came into his mind ready-made as he reached for the other, larger map – because (a) at this stage he didn’t know exactly what he’d say to her, (b) he would be back in a week or so, in any case, and (c) if one hadn’t shown up within some reasonable period of time – fortnight, say – she’d only have to telephone old Peeling for news of him. Or get Sneem or bloody Caterham to find out for her.