So the outcome of the war itself might hang on the success of this operation, Charlie realised. It was a staggering and also frightening thought. With so much at stake, McLachlan or whoever gave him his orders was going to press on with it come hell or high water, accept any degree of risk.
But – holy smoke – if one made a job of it, managed to bring back intelligence of that quality and significance…
In any case, he’d had it darned easy this far. A small amount of hazard now and then – like this morning’s snarl-up, for instance – but on the whole it was all a bit of a lark. Discomfort of sorts from time to time – like getting half-frozen on those long oversea patrols, and bumped around in bad weather, quite often hungry – but not in even the tiniest or remotest way comparable to the horrors that millions of one’s countrymen were enduring – or had endured – as touched on briefly this morning with McLachlan. Think of those fellows. Think of the score to date. Grand total – well, God knew, one heard and read all sorts of figures, but on the Somme one remembered hearing – at the start of it – 60,000 casualties in one day. Men blown apart, torn apart, drowned in liquid mud or sniped while stuck in mud. Mules and horses as well as men simply disappearing under mud. In the last few months – 3rd Ypres and Passchendaele – as McLachlan had said, more than a quarter of a million men.
Don Bishop’s former CO had given Amanda that figure, told her, ‘Could well be revised upwards.’ Comfort for her, that Don might be only one of that great mass of dead? Oh, but he hadn’t been – the Cambrai offensive had been a comparatively small, short-lived thing. In which he – Don Bishop – needn’t have taken part. But think of it – having for whatever reason actually wangled his way into it, to have caught his packet almost immediately – automatically, inevitably. As one had read not long ago in some newspaper, that a subaltern drafted to the Front now – or whenever that was, a few months ago maybe – had a life expectation on average of three weeks. Not that Bishop had been a subaltern, or even a combatant, strictly speaking.
Charlie immobile as a stuck pig, lost in thought and imagery of that hell on earth, halfway through divesting himself of his Sidcot suit prior to getting cleaned up and shifted into uniform and then over to the wardroom mess for a beer or two before lunch, a chat and a few laughs. Well – even in the trenches there’d be laughs, they wouldn’t begrudge one that. He was in motion again now, thoughts returning to their starting point – hell or high water, any risk…
Except those that could be foreseen and either avoided or reduced. In other words, make sure that McLachlan acquired some understanding of what could be done and what could not. From that angle it mightn’t be a bad thing at all that he was coming along – as distinct from issuing instructions, wishing one the best of luck and later dutifully attending the memorial service.
Come on now, Charlie, you aren’t dead yet…
Checking the time: 1140. Wrapped in a towel, then, shuffling along to the washplace, thinking that McLachlan, having spent half an hour socialising with the CO, would probably be unpacking and stowing whatever gear he’d brought with him. Brice, the first lieutenant, had said he’d arrange for the issue of a Sidcot on temporary loan, so that was taken care of. Half an hour or so to kill, therefore.
Ring Amanda?
In the wardroom bar, McLachlan was telling Hallet and some others, ‘A house in Mayfire was hit and burnt to the ground, I heard, but otherwise they fell in open spaces. Hardly worth the buggers’ while, you’d think – especially as ack-ack brought three of ’em down.’
‘Did you see any of it, sir?’
‘No. I was in dreamland, thankfully. Ah, Holt. They say I can sign chits for drinks, so what’ll you have?’
‘Thank you, sir. A beer, please.’ The steward had heard and was drawing one. Charlie nodding to a fellow pilot, flight lieutenant by name of Graham whom he’d last seen about ten days ago at Pulham. He asked him, ‘That your Coastal I saw bumbling in this morning, Joe?’
‘In the snow-shower.’ A nod. ‘Why aren’t you at Polegate?’
‘Getting a new ship – right off the stocks. SSP-7.’
‘Another SSP? Thought they’d called a halt on those. Reckon she’ll stay up, do you?’
‘Never know. Always hope, isn’t there.’
‘Congratulations, though. U-boat, we heard?’
‘Sheer blooming luck. Honest. Surfaced right under me. And if my observer hadn’t been damn quick on it—’
‘Never mind all that, you got it, and you’ll be in for a gong, eh? But guess who was asking after you, this last Sunday evening?’
‘First Sea Lord?’ The steward had brought him his beer. ‘Thanks.’ He shook his head. ‘No. I give up.’
‘Molly, no less!’
‘Molly. Well. Great heavens…’
‘When I was a lad—’ Hallet, sipping gin and water – ‘ladies’ names were not bruited about in the mess.’
‘So who’s bruiting?’
‘More to the point, who’s Molly?’
‘Really.’ Graham looked appalled. ‘Anyone who has to ask that…’
Charlie told McLachlan, ‘Barmaid at the Royal in Great Yarmouth. Cheers, sir.’
‘So you have roots in Great Yarmouth too, Holt?’
He fingered beer froth off his lip. ‘Charming girl, but not quite in the same category, sir.’
‘Ah.’ Flicker of an eyebrow. ‘Polegate’s serious then, is it?’
‘Well.’ He shrugged, evaded with, ‘Actually more Eastbourne than Polegate.’
The Marine smiled. ‘All right, Holt. Tell me, though – any brothers or sisters?’
‘One sister. Older than me. Helping my father out on his farm – in Herefordshire, that is.’
‘Big farm?’
‘For that part of the country, yes, it is. He started small, then bought out neighbours, one after another.’
‘So that’s what you’ll do, eventually.’
‘No, I don’t think so. You married, sir?’
‘Oh Lord, yes. Lord, yes.’ A casual glance around: conversation was general, they were on their own. ‘But listen – have you given any thought to what I was telling you out there?’
‘Certainly have. It’s tremendous, isn’t it. If we can pull it off, why—’
‘As tremendous an issue as one could imagine. Potentially gigantic. And we will pull it off – don’t let yourself doubt that for a moment. Talk later, eh? I got the monkey-suit, by the way. Meet for a good long talk at – five-thirty, say?’
‘Could we make that six o’clock, sir?’
Because Amanda hadn’t been in her office when he’d called. She’d likely be out most of the day, some male colleague had informed him; between five-thirty and six might be his best chance of catching her. Would he like to leave a message?
No, he wouldn’t – hadn’t. He wanted to hear her voice, was all, wanted her to know he was thinking of her, and as she had no telephone at the cottage he could only get her in working hours. Anyway, McLachlan agreed readily enough – six o’clock. That little man – Brice – had offered him the use of an office adjacent to his own in the administration block, where they could talk without interference or others’ flapping ears.
He got through to her at five-forty.
‘Charlie. How lovely. I was told someone had called and wouldn’t leave his name, hoped it might be you. We’ve been having one of our mad days here. Where are you?’
‘Hop and a skip away, that’s all. Mandy – terrific to hear your voice. All I wanted, really.’
‘Absence making the heart…’
‘Doesn’t it, though!’
‘I’m glad. You wouldn’t believe how glad. Going well, is it? The weekend…’
‘Afraid not. Wish it could be, but…’
‘When would you guess? Tuesday? Wednesday?’
‘Really can’t tell. Won’t be hanging around, I promise you. Had a slight setback today, unfortunately, that’s what’s scuppered any hope of getting back for the weekend, but—’
‘What kind of setback, Charlie?’
‘Oh – a technicality. Barring any repetitions, might be with you Tuesday. Can’t call you during the weekend at all, of course, but—’
‘Sunday I’m lunching with the Sneems. Don’s chief, as was. They have a very nice house near Seaford.’
‘Man who got you the job – or his wife did. Well, good. How’ll you get there?’
‘He’ll either come for me, or send a car, or fix a lift – some other guest. They’re very kind. She, especially. I think he just does what he’s told. Anyway…’
‘Yes. Won’t keep you. I’ll call tomorrow – as long as I’m on the ground at some time during the day. Look after yourself, Mandy. And if we can make it back by Tuesday—’
‘We?’
‘Well – I’m not flying solo, you know. But Monday, even – not totally impossible. I’ll have a better notion of it when I call tomorrow. Any snow down there yet?’
‘No. Although it’s cold enough. You’ve got some, have you… Charlie, I’m so happy that you miss me, and—’
‘Show you how much I’ve missed you – Tuesday for sure, best not tempt fate saying Monday.’
McLachlan told him at six, ‘I am now a fully qualified amateur grease-monkey, you’ll be glad to hear.’
‘Got the rudiments of it, have you, sir?’
‘The beginnings, anyway. Astounded at the complexity of your job, I might say – all those lines to the valves.’
‘Two lines to each valve, one to open it and one to shut it, does make for a bit of confusion sometimes. Mind you, having them in different colours helps quite a lot.’
‘In the dark?’
‘Well, no – but having acquired a certain familiarity with them, as one does soon enough… Any case, you won’t—’
‘Damn right, I won’t. As well to have some idea of what goes on, though. One thing – I was about to ask, and something else cropped up – what’s the rip-cord for?’
‘Ripping-panel on top of the envelope. Yank on that cord, you open it – the envelope – right up. Lets out all the gas, whole thing collapses. Emergency use when on or close to the ground and in serious trouble – huge gusty wind, for instance. Once you’ve ripped there’s nothing you can do except pack the whole thing on to a tender – or a train, whatever – and get it to wherever it can be sewn up again.’ He added, ‘Goes without saying, in France, no ripping. Long walk home, eh?’
‘Be somewhat alarming to pull it in error at a few thousand feet, say.’
‘Couldn’t happen. Absolutely couldn’t.’ He took a bit of a plunge: ‘Changing the subject, one thing I’ve been meaning to put to you, sir – you do realise that when the ship’s airborne it’s her pilot who’s in command?’
‘My dear fellow – I wouldn’t try to tell you how to fly the blessed thing!’
‘No. Right. Only thought I should mention it.’
‘I command the operation, you command the vehicle. Clear enough. In any case—’ jerking the door open, taking a look outside then pulling it shut again – ‘for the time being I’m a trainee, aren’t I.’ He came back to the desk. ‘But here and now I want to tell you what it’s about, where we’re going and why. Smoke?’
‘Thank you, sir.’ McLachlan had one going already, and while Charlie lit up he began unfolding a map of France, spreading it on the bare-topped desk. Northern France, Charlie saw: top-left corner, Calais; bottom right, Charleroi and Mauberge; centre, Lille; upper right, Brussels. The major’s forefinger poked at Mons.
‘See here – Franco-Belgian border. The scale of this is one centimetre to two kilometres. And here’ – bottom, left of centre – ‘Arras. To the west of which – forty kilometres roughly – a small town called Frévent, and five kilometres further west the village or hamlet of Boubers-sur-Canche. That’s where we’ll be flying from.’
‘From there to Mons?’
‘Not quite. That locality, but – here’s Mons, and our target – here.’
Charlie peered at the name of a town on the French side of the border.
‘Bavay.’
‘Near there. We’ll switch to a larger scale in a minute. This is to give you the overall view – straight-line route from Boubers to this district being – as near as dammit – hundred and twelve kilometres.’
‘Seventy miles. Take us – well, depending on the wind and conditions generally – hour and a half, two hours.’
‘I thought you could make about fifty knots?’
‘With no headwind – fifty land-miles per hour, let’s say as maximum. But they’ve “silenced” the engine, which has to involve some loss of power, and on top of that if we want to be as quiet as possible we won’t be bashing along at anything like full throttle. Got to find our way, too – if there’s cloud – ten to one there will be – and we have to come down fairly low to spot landmarks, I’d throttle back as much as the wind permitted. Everything depends on the wind – also factors such as cloud and moon, of course. Wouldn’t be realistic to count on more than thirty knots.’
‘Call it two hours, then.’
‘With luck and favourable conditions might do better, but—’
‘Take off as soon as it’s dark – say five pm GMT – get there and land about seven. Take off then by – say five am – land back at Boubers seven ack-emma. On that basis or something like it I’d have as much as ten hours on the ground.’
‘On your bicycle.’
‘As you say. But as a rough idea of the timing, let’s work on that?’
He nodded. ‘This pencilled line is the front, I take it?’
‘Yes. So we’ll cross it just to the south of Arras, then pass south of Valenciennes. Small alteration to port there to leave Bavay to starboard?’
‘Perhaps. What navigational aids along our route, I wonder.’ Looking closely at the map, he wasn’t seeing any, except towns and villages which might or might not be (a) visible, (b) identifiable. Especially as you’d need to stay up out of sight and sound range. ‘No rivers of any size…’
‘No big ones that I know of. Except – well, at Arras, this one – the Scarpe – but you won’t need it, will you, you’ll see Arras itself, I’d imagine? Perhaps La Sensée here – at right-angles across your course. Then south of Valenciennes, this one, the Rhonelle. Never heard of it. But rivers show up in moonlight, right? We might ask for advice on that – on landmarks including rivers – from the RFC. They have a Handley-Page squadron based not far from Boubers-sur-Canche. Handley-Pages are the largest bomber aircraft we’ve got – correct?’
‘Largest anyone’s got.’
‘I know of this particular squadron because one proposal – made in London a couple of days ago – is for a diversionary bombing raid on the railway marshalling yards at Namur. See – here. Major rail junction for war supplies from Germany – the Ruhr, especially. All right, fifty miles east of our area of operations, but on precisely the same line of approach. Huns in and around Bavay and Bellignies would have been hearing aircraft overhead for some time before we’d be there; hearing us they’d have no reason to think we were actually paying them a visit. A straggler passing over like the others did. And Namur’s an entirely believable target, sort of thing those fellows are doing now in any case. The overlords are looking into it, anyway, and I’m rather inclined to push it – what do you say?’
‘I’d say it’s a thumping good idea. However much quieter they’ve made her, our approach won’t be anything like noiseless. And when we’re getting her right down to land – well, crikey… No, I’d say that’s a top-hole scheme, sir.’
‘Good. But tell me – how vulnerable are we to air attack, I mean by Gerry fighters?’
‘If they find us, we don’t stand a chance.’
‘So how come you patrol fairly safely over the Channel day in, day out?’
‘Out of Hun fighters’ range, sir. Other side of the Dover Strait’s a different matter. They’ve airfields anywhere on the wrong side of Niewpoort – at Zeebrugge – so off North Foreland, for instance – well, we lost a Coastal off Dover, back in April. Brandenburg fighter seaplanes are the chief menace – or they were – over those waters, anyway.’
‘But you do have a Lewis gun?’
‘Its main use is for exploding or puncturing floating mines. Otherwise, it’s not as much use as you might think – especially not against small, fast, highly manoeuvrable and better-armed attackers. Not sure we will carry one, anyway – with the weight and lift problem – and no one in the for’ard cockpit anyway, just your bicycle.’
‘Your view is we shouldn’t take one, then?’
‘On the whole – for those practical reasons, and the fact the gun and a couple of belts of .303 weigh forty pounds, which we’d save. Huns do put night fighters up, I gather, but only when they know there’s something on. Our best chance is simply not to be heard or spotted.’
‘But if a raid on Namur is laid on…’ McLachlan rubbing his jaw, hawk’s eyes blinking. ‘We don’t have to decide until we’re about ready to leave Polegate, anyway.’ Charlie let that go, with a private reservation that when that time came it would be a decision solely for SSP-7’s skipper to make.
Leatherneck rattling on with ‘But as we can’t yet put a date on either Polegate or France – I’m thinking of the moon now: it’s currently waning, and today’s the sixth – so suppose we’re at Polegate by Tuesday, practise night landings and/or take-offs the rest of the week – wouldn’t want longer than that, would you? Cross over to France on the Saturday – fifteenth, right?’
‘Coming up to the moonless period.’
‘Advantages and disadvantages, I suppose…’
‘Given the choice, I’d go for a moonless night. Navigationally a bit tricky, maybe, but – what I was saying before, if we have to come down to see under low cloud – well, the darker the better, if towns or villages show lights and I can tell one from another – which is a big “if”, certainly, but with careful preparation – a track-chart, you might call it, and weather conditions allowing me to keep a fairly accurate DR – dead-reckoning position, that is.’ He wagged his head. ‘Sorry – thinking aloud – but what that comes down to is having a good notion of our speed over the ground, so as to stick to a schedule I’d work out in advance. And – yes, listen to this, sir – you’re right, this moon is on its last legs, and if we could get over to France a bit sooner, be there with everything on the top line for a moonless night and weather conditions reasonably favourable… See, we don’t need three, four days at Polegate, anyway – two, say. And if we got there Monday rather than Tuesday, then over to France on Thursday – today week?’
‘Barring further accidents or defects, of course.’
‘Oh, certainly.’ Crossing fingers. ‘But that way we’d be giving ourselves some possible choice of weather conditions. If necessary waiting a day or two; alternatively, if it looks good, just bat straight off!’
Drawing hard on the last inch of his cigarette. It was a Players, and he’d enjoyed it; all he had were Woodbines. He’d been economising lately: suppers in Eastbourne didn’t come all that cheap, and he had no resources beyond his pay, which his father, although he could well have afforded to, declined ‘as a matter of principle’ to supplement. Given you better schooling than I had, boy, and now you’re earning a damn sight more than I did at your age… All right, that’s the way the old swine saw it – who gave a damn. Charlie stubbed the Players out in the brass base of a four-inch shell. McLachlan was unfolding another map, the large-scale one no doubt, Mons and that frontier area. Charlie asked him, ‘Can you say exactly where you’d want me to put her down?’
‘Not exactly, no. Roughly – yes, of course. Within certain limits, the choice must be yours, mustn’t it.’ Hands spread, smoothing the map out, then using a propelling pencil’s tip as pointer. ‘See that village?’
Charlie got it in focus. ‘Bellignies?’
‘That’s the place. Actually, Bellignies.’ Correcting Charlie’s French pronunciation. ‘See Hergies – and Hon-Hergies?’
‘Hergies. Oh, yes.’
‘The Hon is a river. Little one – I doubt you’d see it from the air – not without a moon, anyway. But here, now – Taisnières-sur-Hon. That’s very much of interest to us. I gather you don’t have much French?’
‘None at all, sir. Except for “bonjaw”, “common tally voo” and “parly voo Ongly”.’
‘Luckily I have a little more than that. In fact I speak it adequately – and I get by reasonably well in German. It’s why I’m in this job. Partly. And this’ – forefinger circling over those villages – ‘is the area to which we must have access. That’s to say I must, on my bike. You’ve got landing problems to sort out, all of which is very much your business. All I can say is, the closer we can be to this place – Taisnières-sur-Hon – the better, from my point of view.’
‘Scale of this map…’
‘One centimetre to two hundred and fifty metres. Call it yards if you like, we don’t have to be that pernickety.’
‘Very large areas of forest…’
‘Forêt de Mormal. Most of it’s to the south of Bavay here, but, as you can see, large enough patches all over. Around Bellignies, between that and Hon-Hergies here – a straggle of it around Taisnières, but not enough to be of much use – and this much bigger area here… See this long straggle of a village?’
Charlie read its name. Malplaquet. ‘Something familiar about that. A battle? Duke of Marlborough?’
‘Bloodiest battle of the eighteenth century. 1709. As you say, Marlborough – in alliance with Eugene, Prince of Savoy – fighting the French, naturally. French under Louis the Fourteenth. Huge mass of cavalry, Marlborough had, but – well, neither side taking any prisoners, simply carnage.’ He shrugged. ‘We’ve done better since, of course.’
‘The Somme.’
‘Quite. Here, though, to get at the enemy that great horde of cavalry had first to fight its way through these miles of forest.’ His hand encircled the whole area. ‘Forêt de Mormal.’
‘At a glance, this spot mightn’t be too bad.’ In the forest southeast of Malplaquet, what looked like a very large clearing open to the south. At least, partially open to the south. You’d be surrounded by forest except for that gap, which on the scale of 250 metres to a centimetre looked to be about 300 yards wide. Might handle that all right, he thought. And inside, you’d have open ground measuring about a thousand yards east to west, five or six hundred north to south. Pointing at it: ‘If we could come in from the south, and set her down in here. In through this gap then ideally around to starboard – wind permitting. Easier saying it than doing it, of course: and for all we know it might be blowing half a gale. But given reasonably good conditions – trail-rope with a grapnel on it maybe. Entrance that wide, then practically all-round screening… Wind direction anything from say nor’-nor’west to northeast – I mean I could adjust the exact line of approach, d’you see?’
‘I’ll mark it for you.’ Small pencil cross in the middle. ‘Wouldn’t be bad for me at all – the distance from there to Taisnières. Ideal, in fact. But have a long, close look, take your time over it, see what alternatives… Might have more than one in mind, allowing for different wind directions – for a westerly, for instance?’
‘There’s a building here…’
‘Farmstead. “Farm of the wood of the Abbess”, that says. Could be just that – a working farm – or a ruin, or stuffed with Huns. RFC might tell us – 207 Squadron might know about it already, alternatively might take a gander at it for us.’ He made a note, checking the map reference and adding, ‘That’s the Handley-Page bomber-squadron based at Ligescourt, about fifteen miles west of our field at Boubers-sur-Canche. Enough geography for the time being, I’ll give you some background now. You’ll have heard of Nurse Edith Cavell, I suppose?’