The best of all moments to look back on, despite anxiety about the weather, was when he and Hilde reached the edge of the tree-felling area at Trieu du Bois, in pitch darkness not long after six, and he heard McLachlan’s sharp, ‘Who’s there?’ and then much closer, actually in the trees where he and the girl were coming out of them, Stavely’s, ‘Flight Lieutenant Holt sir, is it?’
According to Charlie, his reply was, ‘Well, since you ask—’, and then, ‘I’ve got Hilde Martens with me. Her mother’s dead. Huns had Hilde in a cell in that château, that’s why I’ve been so long.’
They’d started out from the Voreux place at four-thirty, by which time it had been dark enough and still snowing – which was good, in that it should fill their tracks which might otherwise have been picked up and traced back to the farm. Rising wind less good. Anyway – if he’d been on his own he’d have found his way to the Blaregnies wood all right, having both map and compass and a box of the Voreuxs’ matches, but Hilde knew every lane and track, and cut some corners, at one time leading him by the hand. On reaching the ship though, he’d led her by the hand, as with Stavely in close company he’d picked his way between the beech stumps to SSP-7’s car, where he’d picked her up and placed her in the for’ard cockpit beside McLachlan. She’d squawked a bit, and McLachlan, as pleased as punch, had erupted into French.
Charlie cut in, ‘If you’re saying sorry about her mum, sir, say it for me too? I tried, but I don’t think she got it. The old girl had keeled over before we got here, they buried her this afternoon. How’s the leg, sir?’
‘Bloody awful. But yes, all right.’ Back into French again – soothing tone, punctuated by soft acknowledgements.
Stavely then admitting, in reply to a question about how things had been, ‘Not what you’d call a laugh a minute, sir. Ate an’ drunk all there was. Couldn’t do nowt with that skid or the struts…’
He’d fixed the damage to the car, though, and hadn’t found any other problems. They’d been expecting the wind to rise, had really begun to worry about it during the past hour, had also of course been deeply concerned as to what might have happened to Charlie and what they’d do if he simply didn’t come back. There’d also been the possibility of being spotted, especially by overflying aircraft. Fortunately there hadn’t been any. Stavely had cut a strip of blanket and used it to bind McLachlan’s leg tightly with a spunyarn lashing on it: McLachlan’s own idea, that it should be held straight and as near immobile as possible. While listening to this report from the AM, Charlie had got his Sidcot out of the car and was throwing off outer garments. Pistol and belt back into the cockpit, then pulling on the suit, and the boots again, and helmet. He thought the snow was falling more thinly than it had been earlier, but even in a fair degree of shelter here what there was of it was travelling almost horizontally. There was no way to clear the stuff off the ship’s horizontal fins unfortunately, except to get her up into the sky and hope to have as much as possible shake off or blow off before at 5-6,000 feet however much was left froze solid.
Dressed and ready, he checked the Charlie Holt Releasing Gear by feel, found no snow on it – which there might have been, and which might have turned to ice, in which case the gear would not have released; Stavely confirmed that he’d seen to that, periodically checked all the moorings. He asked, ‘Want the guys cast off, sir? I shifted your head-rope, see – when the wind shifted like.’
‘Well done you. And yes, let’s get on with it. As you say – guys off first. You for’ard and port, me aft and starboard. Leaving scrulexes in the ground, OK?’
‘Aye, sir…’
‘And then – well, look here.’ He explained, ‘Need to float her up vertically, so she’ll clear the stumps. Trim may be a problem – weight of snow aft, so we’ll shift all external ballast to where I can get at it amidships and ditch as much as necessary. Trail-rope’ll have her then – we’ll start up and when she’s clear I’ll put her ahead. May sling some ballast to you if she gets lighter aft once we’re airborne, OK?’
He cast his pair of guys off, then joined Stavely in moving the sand-ballast – in bags suspended from a rail that ran around the outside of the car – to within his own reach from the centre cockpit. Climbed aboard then and felt around for this, that and the other. The Aldis was back in its stowage, he noted, and its lead coiled out of the way. Stavely had certainly kept himself as busy as he could. Very pistol then, and cartridges. Needing a red, he remembered, and finding one, the base of a red Very cartridge being gnarled all round, as distinct from only a half or quarter of its circumference, as was the case respectively with greens and whites. He loaded the pistol and it put back where it belonged. Calling to McLachlan then – interrupting a continuing exchange in French – ‘Ready to take off, sir?’
‘Sooner the better. In good order, are we?’
‘Far as I can tell. Hilde well wrapped up in blankets, is she?’
‘Of course she is!’
‘Right. Six-forty now, so—’
‘Tell you another thing, Holt – this girl’s a winner!’
‘Certainly is. I’ve quite a story to tell you, when we’re—’
‘What she’s telling me, I’m talking about. Every detail memorised and absolutely the real McCoy!’
‘Well, that’s – terrific.’
Was, too. Hadn’t all been for nothing – as it might have been. That possibility had occurred to him – must have to McLachlan and his people in London, too – that she might have been tricking them, concerned only to get herself and her mother out. He thought that having Elise de Semeillions’ backing would have provided the guarantee, as far as London was concerned. He turned back to Stavely: ‘Right, start up!’
The thrill of it – pleasure, anyway, satisfaction – was to be back doing what one knew about, had been trained for and was practised in, good enough at actually to enjoy. In contrast to more recent antics. But there was also a high degree of urgency – to get her up out of here, and away, and down again, before this rising wind reached or even approached gale-force. Force 5 now, he reckoned. Since casting off the handling guys the ship was acting up, too, tugging and lurching both trail-rope and head-rope. It wasn’t a comfortable or even a safe situation; he was relieved to hear Stavely fit the crank handle, then the clatter of it – Charlie’s hand hovering above the throttle – and the big engine barking and hammering into action. Elevators level, rudder amidships. Car being level now of course, off the ground and the bent skid, six or eight feet up – above tree-stump level too, therefore – but the wind was still a menace, could catch her wrong and slam her down – and even Monk hadn’t had tree-stumps under him. Adjusting the elevator-control so that when he put her ahead and released the head-rope she’d acquire some bow-up angle, for dynamic lift. Gas-pressure might be on the low side and he didn’t want to scoop air into the ballonets just to maintain pressure in the envelope, in the process making her heavier than she had to be. Thank God for this wind being – oh, no more than force 5. Ditching the contents of one sandbag from each side now. Items already dumped included the two spare scrulexes, two heavy hammers and one axe. She was head to wind all right, thanks to the head-rope, which was truly earning its keep this evening. Another ditching of sand-ballast – and give her some thrust now – throttle – and let go the head-rope. Ten feet: so all right, cast off the trail-rope – by CHRG, a good hard tug on the hemp line. Which did the trick, and she was on her own, the last of the head-rope thrashing out and away through its D-ring – a present for some forester, plus axe, assorted clothing, 14-pound hammers. Bow-up by two or three degrees, and – he bellowed, ‘No you bloody don’t!’, sure that she’d been just as it were contemplating coming off the wind now the head-rope wasn’t there to restrain her, and with revs still too low. He’d jammed on rudder and backed it with full throttle – needing that, to meet the wind’s force as she lifted into it. If he’d been two seconds late on it, she’d have been in the trees. Thirty feet – forty. Feeling the wind like a boat butting into a rough sea. At 500 he’d bring her round on to course for Boobers, and carry on up to 6,000 or wherever the cloud-base was.
The snow made things slightly uncomfortable – the usual plastering on goggles for instance, and the deep-freeze effect – but otherwise the hard work and concentration was to hold her on course with the wind abaft the beam doing its best to push her off it. Force 5 rising 6, he guessed. More than you’d choose to fly in normally, but with only seventy miles from Bavay to Boobers – well, get her back on the ground, touch wood, before it got out of hand. Staying below cloud all the way, most of the time at about, 5,500, he did see a haze of diffuse radiance over Valenciennes, and south of Arras first German and then British searchlights sweeping and probing around. Charlie sparing only a second or two at a time for such observations, eyes fixed pretty well continuously on the compass, adjusting helm constantly to hold her on course or close to it; and SSP-7 in any case darkly aloof to all that – whatever anyone was playing at down there, she herself was invisible and inaudible, and with the wind well back on her quarter making the best part of fifty miles an hour. Actually she’d done them proud, he thought.
He had her over Doullens just after eight – having spotted its Morse ‘Q’ and needing to alter by only a few degrees to fire the red Very from about 1,000 feet right over them, then an immediate ten-degree alteration to starboard and continuing down to 500 in search of Boobers – which was easy as pie since they were in the course of lighting their flares around the field, having been alerted by the Doullens night-sky spotters. Charlie circling twice then while nosing down – once to give them an extra few minutes to get the red carpet out, so to speak, and a second circuit at fifty feet to come in on a course of northeast-by-north, directly into the wind and with the twin luxuries of a handling party down there waiting for him and large reserves of bottled gas so he could valve as much as he needed to. Just as well, as it was all of force 6 by this time. He got her down to them all right – trail-rope in their hands first, a bunch of them running with it so as to hold her bow into the rising near gale while he valved her down into the reach of the others’ hands, the drag of thirty or forty men’s weight. At that, they still had their work cut out, getting her into the canvas shed.
Things happened quickly then: McLachlan was moved on a stretcher into the shared tent, and an Army doctor arrived only minutes later in a Crossley tender from – Charlie thought – Frévent. Hilde was meanwhile escorted to what had been the officers’ mess hut; food was being laid on, and meanwhile she was provided with ablutionary facilities while Tewksbury stood guard outside. Charlie was in the tent shifting out of his Sidcot while the doctor examined McLachlan, rewrapping his leg in bandage instead of blanket and telling him it should be in plaster as soon as possible and that he’d then be able to get around on crutches, but meanwhile—
McLachlan cut in with, ‘Where and when, this plaster?’
‘Well – we have full hospital facilities at Abbeville – that’s the nearest.’
‘It’s also in the wrong direction! I want to get to London! In fact it’s imperative that I do so – and that the girl comes with me!’
The doctor hadn’t heard about any girl. As for getting to London, though – via Calais – he suggested that the best thing might be road transport to Hesdin, which was the railhead for these parts and had a hospital.
‘Distance from here?’
‘Twenty kilometres. We could send you there tonight, in the tender. I’d telephone, of course, make sure they had a bed for you.’
‘Beds plural – for me and for the girl. A hospital’s ideal – she needs some kit and they’ll have nurses’ stuff. She is a nurse – or was. Listen – I have absolute authority for this. I can give you a name and a telegraphic address in London that’d put the fear of God into anyone below the rank of field marshal who doesn’t bloody jump to it. Eh?’
The doctor said tiredly, ‘I’ll call the hospital. When you’re there, you can call the RTO about onward transport via Calais.’
McLachlan said, both of them puffing at cigarettes, ‘I suppose they’re right and it’ll be a day or two before this gale blows itself out. When it does, you’ll get yourselves over to Polegate, of course. By about mid-week, d’you think?’
‘Well – whenever…’
He was having difficulty in accepting that it was over. That they’d done it. Linked with this was recognition of the fact that without Elise de Semeillions’ very considerable help, they could not have brought the girl out. And there was a less-than-happy awareness of what might be facing Elise now. Now, or tomorrow, or next week… McLachlan telling him, ‘My people – the birds who set this up – I’ve said this before, I know – will certainly want to see you, hear your own account of it. I need hardly tell you I’ll be recommending you in the strongest possible terms for promotion, a medal—’
‘May I suggest, sir, not to forget Stavely? He did damn well for us, you know.’
‘Yes – I agree. Absolutely.’
‘If it was up to me I’d say a DSM and advancement to petty officer. But – er – would you think there’s any real chance of – as we discussed earlier – for me, this is – getting in on the rigids development programme at Barrow?’
‘A very good chance, I’d say. You’ve earned whatever you damn well want, Holt, within reason. And you could hardly be better qualified. I’ll tell ’em you’re mad keen, and you can take it up with ’em yourself then.’ He paused. ‘You’d find it plain sailing, would you, leaving Polegate?’
‘Plain sailing…’
‘The roots, man! Uproot her too, would you?’
‘I – doubt it. There are – uncertainties, in that area.’
‘So you’re a free agent? Good. He travels fastest who travels alone – what? But I say—’ lowering his tone – ‘speaking of young women, isn’t this one an absolute knockout?’
‘Hilde? Well – yes, I suppose…’
‘Suppose, be damned! And – great heavens, man, considering what she’s been through…’
The Crossley tender, driven by an RAMC lance-corporal and with McLachlan and Hilde in the back of it under a tent-like roofing, set off for Hesdin soon after ten pm. Hilde had kissed Charlie on one still unshaven cheek, squeezing his hand and murmuring, ‘Sank you, sank you, mon lieutenant,’ and McLachlan, watching from his stretcher as they were loading him into the vehicle, had looked – well, surprised, but something more than that, too. Charlie wondered, on reflection, after the increasingly stormy night had swallowed them, whether the major might not be seeing himself as on to rather a good thing.
The wind was gusting gale-force by midnight and, as was now forecast, went on doing so through Monday and Tuesday. There wasn’t a lot to do at Boobers itself, but on the Monday Charlie went into Frévent with Tewksbury and had a meal and a bottle of wine in an estaminet that he – Tewksbury – knew well. He spoke some French, and negotiated the purchase of a bottle of champagne for Charlie, who’d remembered having promised Amanda that he’d bring her some. Then on the Tuesday he had a visit at Boobers from Rudd, the RFC flight commander from Ligescourt; the Handley-Pages were grounded too in these weather conditions, and Rudd had come to find out how SSP-7 had got on. Charlie told him, ‘Turned out all right in the end, but I landed in the wrong place and darned near smashed us up.’ He showed him the ship and Stavely’s temporary repair to the car, explained the controls and general principles, after which they went into Frévent, Charlie on the pillion of Rudd’s motorbike, to pass another hour or two in that same pub.
The forecast for Wednesday the 19th was good, and sure enough it dawned calm and clear; he and Stavely took off at nine and were on the field at Polegate in mid-forenoon. Bob Bayley, flight lieutenant-commander, asked him after seeing the ship walked into her shed, ‘Lost your leatherneck major, then?’
‘Mislaid, say.’ Charlie added, ‘Never mind, plenty more where he came from.’ Then, ‘Oh, here.’ The Webley-Scott, which he’d had loose on the cockpit floor. ‘Many thanks for the loan of this. Didn’t have to use it, but came near to it once or twice.’
‘Did you succeed in whatever you were supposed to be doing?’
‘Yes, we did. Sheer luck, but – yes. Actually the major’s intact – more or less – came back by train and steamer – and not alone, I may say.’
Which brought her to mind…
But no. No telephoning in advance. Get on the old bike this evening and – see how it goes.
His DSC for sinking the U-boat had come through, Bayley said, and old Peeling wanted to see him about it – wanted to see him anyway. But the first thing was to clean up and get out of flying gear, and check the Douglas to make sure it would start – or better still get an AM to check it over. Better see the Old Man before lunch anyway, he thought: might meet him in the wardroom and incur the old boy’s displeasure.
Six o’clock. Get to her by about half-past, he decided. The Douglas was in fine fettle – hadn’t needed any attention, according to the AM who’d given it the once-over and reported that she’d started like a bird. Which almost certainly meant it had been used by some other bugger during his absence. Anyway, no harm done. No harm anywhere, this far; in fact the ambience was distinctly jolly. Peeling’s congratulations and complimentary remarks still rang in his ears; he had the champagne bulging his greatcoat pocket and in another the ribbon of the DSC – which he’d get sewn on at Hudson’s in Terminus Road maybe tomorrow. Peeling had said it was capital to have Charlie and his ‘pusher’ back and on the station’s strength; in a day or so no doubt he’d be keen to resume oversea patrols? Charlie had said yes indeed, but (a) he’d be grateful to be allowed a few days off – during which time the port-side skid and struts could be refitted and the car’s forepart repaired, and while she was in dock her envelope might be re-doped in the normal aluminium-grey – and (b) he was supposed to be on stand-by for a call to London. The Old Man had known about that, had had a call yesterday from McLachlan. Finally, concluding the interview, Charlie had asked him, ‘May I take all-night leave—’ and seeing the nodding start had added – ‘these next few days sir?’
At six thirty-five he free-wheeled into the yard behind the cottage. No snow here now: no other vehicle, either. She might of course not be back from work yet. He went round to the front and hammered twice with the iron knocker.
No reaction. The green glow of his watch told him it was six thirty-seven.
Then – sound of key in lock. In him, that old thrill… Key in lock not turning, though; instead, her voice through the letterbox flap: ‘Who’s there?’ He took a breath and announced himself: ‘Charlie Holt.’ With the thought springing to mind – as she began to go berserk, and the lock clicked over, door wrenched open – Who did you think it might have been? But with the lamplight glowing behind her and her arms round his neck – and all that, while sort of waltzing her inside – what had become the general drift of his thinking in recent days crystalised into the fact that there was an answer of some kind somewhere, and sooner or later he’d get to know it, but meanwhile who gave all that much of a damn?