Attack Alarm

Chapter Nine

At ten we were relieved. Usually the whole detachment went straight to bed in order to get as much sleep as possible. But, of course, Kan and Chetwood had to choose this evening of all evenings to start a discussion about the stage, Chetwood holding forth about the full-blooded qualities of the ham actor, and Kan naturally standing by the more sophisticated modern school. They sat up arguing over a hurricane lamp till a quarter to eleven while I lay in bed and fumed.

At last quiet descended upon the hut. I waited till eleven-fifteen to make certain that everyone should be sound asleep. The place was full of the soft, sibilant sound of steady breathing. I slipped out of bed and put on my battle blouse. Except for this, I had gone to bed fully clothed. For the sake of quietness, and if necessary speed, I put on canvas shoes. Before leaving I thrust my kit-bag and overcoat under my blankets, so that when the guard came in to wake his relief he would think I was still sleeping.

None of the recumbent figures stirred as I opened the back door of the hut. It was dark outside save along the western sky where the last light of day still lingered, throwing the pit into silhouette with the muzzle of the gun and the sentry’s tin hat quite visible. I closed the door of the hut softly and paused to listen. Not a sound from inside. I went a little down the slope towards the wire and there sat down to watch and accustom myself to the light. The nearest I had ever got before to my present escapade was stalking in Scotland, and I knew enough not to hurry even though time pressed.

Gradually I was able to see more and more until at last I could make out the thin coils of dannert stretched tenuously out along the slope of the hill, and behind loomed vaguely the black bulk of trees at the bottom. But still I waited. I had to know the position of the sentry.

At last I heard him. He was pacing slowly along the inside edge of the wire and every now and then his bayonet clanked in its rifle socket. I waited till he had passed. I was just rising to my feet when I heard a sound behind me. It was a click. I thought for a moment that it must be the latch of the hut door. But there was no further sound, and at length I rose to my feet and moved swiftly towards the wire. And at that moment the sirens went. I hesitated, cursing. And then I hurried on, realising that their wail would cover any slight noise I might make getting through the wire.

In a second I had reached the sentry-beaten path inside the wire. I glanced quickly along it in each direction. There was no sign of the sentry. I had brought a pair of leather gloves I had had in my case, and with these on my hands I parted two of the coils and stepped into the gap. I then parted the farther side of the two coils and, raising myself on tiptoe, swung my right foot over into this gap. But to bring my left foot over as well seemed an impossibility. The wire barbs were digging into me painfully. I set my teeth and lifted my left leg back and round. I thought I had done it, but a barb just caught my canvas shoes. I lost my balance and fell headlong. I caught my head on the ground — it was as hard as concrete — and there was a searing pain in my left leg.

But when I staggered to my feet I found I was clear of the wire. I listened. The still night air was silent. No-one seemed to have heard my fall. Crouching low and taking advantage of what little cover there was on that bare slope, I hurried down to the shelter of the wood. Looking back, I could see no movement. At the top of the slope there was the vague silhouette of the hut and the gun, and away to the right was the bulk of the dispersal point.

I went cautiously forward into the wood. It was pitch dark here and I had to feel my way, feeling round trees and bushes by hand. Every yard of progress seemed to take an age, but though my one desire was to get through the wood as quickly as possible to the road beyond, I steadfastly refused to be hurried by nerves.

It is a very unnerving sensation to pass from open country into a wooded place when you are going in fear of your life. For ten days I had been living on the bare hilltop of the ‘drome. I knew all the sounds of that open stretch of ruined downland. During that time I had never heard the rustle of a tree in a current of air, the scamper of a squirrel through light branches, or the movement of dried leaves and twigs caused by the night life of a wood. It was all new to me, and each sound, terrifying at first, had to be sorted out and understood before I dared move forward again.

Once, behind me, I heard the snap of a twig where something heavier than usual had pressed on it. That sound alone held me poised with one foot forward for fully a minute.

At last I made the path that ran through the centre of the wood. There was no sound apart from the faint stirring of the branches high above my head. I crossed the ten feet of open ground without a challenge. This gave me confidence and I pressed forward faster. My lack of caution brought its own reward, for I tripped over a mound of earth and only just saved myself from falling into a deep trench. There was more barbed wire beyond it, but it was just a few strands, not dannert, and quite easily negotiated.

It took time, however, and as I slipped over the last strand a twig snapped only a few yards behind me. The sound of it seemed loud in the stillness. I froze. My senses warned me that it was not one of the usual noises of the wood. A second later came the unmistakable sound of somebody stumbling and the thud of a body as it pitched into the trench I had just crossed. A muttered curse and I heard the man pick himself up cautiously.

Silence for a moment. Then he began to negotiate the barbed wire. I slid quietly behind a tree, my heart pounding against my ribs. My immediate reaction was that one of the Guards was trailing me. But reason told me that if it was one of the Guards he would have known the position of the trench and would not have fallen into it. Moreover, I had heard no clatter of a rifle as he fell. And that muttered curse! Surely he would not have uttered it if he had been trailing me.

The man, whoever he was, was very near me now. I could hear the pant of his breathing. Then the sound was lost in the whir of a car coming up the road. The wood about me suddenly took shape as the blacked-out headlights swept past only a few yards beyond where I stood. It only lit the wood up for a second before it drew level and was gone, but in that second I saw the man who was coming towards me and recognised him.

‘Good God, Micky!’ I said. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

I sensed the shock of my voice as the car swept on and the blackness, more impenetrable than ever, settled once more on the wood.

‘Who’s that?’ His voice sounded hoarse and frightened.

I hesitated. The road was close, much closer than I had expected. Once on it I could give him the slip and he would never know who it was. ‘Is anybody there?’

And because I felt his fear, I said: ‘It’s Hanson.’

‘Hanson?’ he whispered. ‘Cor lumme, you didn’t ‘alf give me a fright.’

‘What the devil are you doing?’ I asked.

‘Doing a bunk, same as you. Though I didn’t think you was that scared.’

‘Good God!’ I said. ‘You mean you’re deserting?’

‘Who says I’m deserting? I ain’t deserting. Pm transferring. I’m going to volunteer in the Buffs.’

‘But why?‘I asked.

‘Cos I ain’t gonna stay in that bleeding aerodrome to provide target practice for Jerries. That ain’t fighting. It’s bloody murder. I want to be in something where I can fight the Jerry proper. I want to get at ‘em wiv a rifle and baynet.’

‘But if you’re caught you’ll be regarded as a deserter.’

‘Admitted. So will you. But I ain’t aiming to get caught.’

‘The odds are against you, Micky,’ I said. ‘Why not go back now while you’ve got the chance.’

‘And be bombed again without being able to do nothing to stop it. Not bloody likely. Wot about you, anyway?’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘I’m not exactly deserting.’

‘I suppose you’re resigning. You got a nerve telling me to go back, whilst you’re running like hell yourself. Wot d’you think I am? Are you going to volunteer in some other unit?’

‘No,‘I said.

‘Well, I am — see? I want ter fight for me country. I ain’t deserting. Come on, let’s get out o’ here while the going’s good.’

It was no use arguing with him. Time was too precious and at any moment we might be overheard. I followed him down a gentle slope and over a wooden stile on to the road. ‘There’s a garage just down the road,’ I said. ‘We’ll set a car from there.’

But we were in luck. We hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards when we heard a car coming towards us. ‘Stand by to board,’ I said to Micky. And as the dull headlights came round the bend ahead of us, I stepped out into the middle of the road and signalled it to stop. It pulled up with a shriek of brakes. It wasn’t a car at all but a Bedford truck.

‘Can I see your identity card?’ I asked as the driver leaned out of the window of the cab. I glanced at it and then flashed the torch I had brought with me in his face. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to get down while we search your cabin,’ I said.

‘What the hell’s the matter?’ he grumbled.

He showed no signs of moving. ‘Come on, look sharp!’ I barked. ‘I haven’t got all night to waste.’

‘All right, mate, all right,’ he muttered as he climbed out. ‘What’s the trouble, anyway?’

‘Looking for a Bedford truck full of H.E.,’ I told him.

‘Well, you’ve only got to look at the bloody thing to see it’s empty,’ he said.

The driver may have dumped it,’ I explained. Then to Micky I said: ‘You search the other side. Come on, look sharp. The fellow doesn’t want to waste all night. He’s probably late back already.’

‘You’re right there, sir,’ I think he thought by my voice and the way I had spoken to Micky that I was an officer in battle dress. ‘Shan’t be in bed till one and due to clock out again at eight in the morning.’

I had climbed up into the driver’s seat and made a pretence of searching with my torch, whilst in reality I was noting the position of the gears and foot controls. ‘That’s too bad,’ I said. At the same time I slammed home the gears, revved the engine and let the clutch in with a bang.

I heard the beginning of his shout, but lost it in the noise of the engine as I raced through the gears. In a second it seems I had swept past the turning that led to the main gates of the aerodrome. And in less than ten minutes I had swung left on to the main Eastbourne road and was making for East Grinstead. Fortune had favoured us. A Bedford truck, empty, has a. pretty turn of speed. The moon was just rising and the added light enabled me to push her. On the straight stretches I was showing nearly sixty on the clock.

In less than half an hour from the time I had expropriated the lorry I had passed through East Grinstead and Forest Row and was climbing the long winding hill that leads up to Ashdown Forest.

Just past the Roebuck at Wych Cross I forked left, and about a mile farther on I came upon the turning off to the right of which Marion had spoken. I switched my lights off. The moonlight was quite strong now. ‘Well, Micky,’ I said. ‘This is where I leave you.’

‘Wot’s the game?’ he demanded suspiciously.

‘How do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Ain’t I good enough for you, then?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said.

‘Well, wot’s the idea, then? You got a hideout you don’t want me to share — that’s it, is it?’

I hesitated. It didn’t seem to matter much if I told him the truth. ‘I haven’t got a hideout at all,’ I said. ‘You see, I’m really not deserting. In a few hours’ time I shall be back at the aerodrome.’

‘If you do it’s the Glasshouse for you and a brick wall, I tell you, mate. Anyway, if you’re going back, wot’s the good of getting out?’

‘Because I had to get to a certain farm tonight,’ I said. ‘I’m playing a lone hand against a gang of fifth columnists. They’ve got a plan that will enable the Germans to capture our fighter aerodromes. I aim to stop them.’

He looked at me. In the faint light from the dashboard I noted the sidelong, furtive glance. ‘You ain’t kidding?’

I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said.

‘Sure?’

‘Cross my heart.’

A sudden gleam came into his small close-set eyes. ‘Cor lumme!’ he said. ‘Wot a break! Like a book I bin reading all about gangsters in America. Will they have guns?’ he asked.

‘Probably,’ I said. And I couldn’t help grinning though I felt queasy inside because it was so near to zero hour.

‘Cor lumme!’ he repeated. ‘That’s the way I like to fight — ‘and to ‘and. I wouldn’t ‘alf like to give a Jerry a sock in the kisser — just one and I’d be ‘appy. Come on! Let’s get at ‘em.’

I glanced at him. It was incredible. A coward in the face of bombs, yet here was the spirit that made British Tommies go in fearlessly with rifle and bayonet against an enemy armed with light automatics. Again I hesitated. He looked as though he might be useful in a rough-house — small and tough, probably a dirty fighter. I had no illusions about my own abilities in a fight. He might be very useful.

‘All right,’ I said, and slipped the lorry into gear again.

‘But there may be no scrap and no gang of Nazis. I may be wrong.’

I changed quickly up into top and kept the engine ticking over, so that we made little noise as we ran over that flat open heath. The road was nothing more than a rough gravel track. And in the dim moonlight the country ahead and on either side looked desolate. There were no trees, and the only relief from the interminable heather was the gnarled and twisted skeleton of gorse bushes, black and flowerless from a recent fire. My uneasiness grew with my surroundings.

‘Cor, don’t ‘alf seem creepy,’ Micky muttered, voicing my own thoughts. I couldn’t help remembering Childe Rolande to the Dark Tower Came. There was a very slight mist and the place reeked of desolation. When last I had seen Ashdown Forest it had been in sunlight, and it had seemed warm and friendly, with autumn tints glowing in the heather. I had been motoring down to Eastbourne to spend a week-end with some friends. Now it was no longer friendly, and I thought of the Ancient Britons who had fought and died here in their hopeless attempt to stem the tide of Caesar’s advancing legions. So many of the more desolate parts of Britain seem to house the ghostly memory of that tragic race.

The track forked. Evidently I was on the right road. I swung right. The road was now definitely no more than a cart track, grass-grown in the middle and full of pot-holes. At the end of it should be Cold Harbour Farm.

I passed an even smaller track leading off to the right. Then a patch of gorse bushes seemed to jump up at me out of the pale mist. I braked and swung the lorry off the track. It was time, I felt, to carry out some sort of reconnaissance. I stopped so that the lorry was screened as far as possible from the track and climbed out.

Micky followed. ‘Where do we go now?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper.

‘Up this track,’ I said. ‘It should lead us to a place called Cold Harbour Farm.’

‘Cor, stone me, wot a name!’

We went on in silence, two shadows slinking through the pale ethereal light, our canvas shoes making no sound on the baked surface of the path. About a quarter of a mile farther on we passed through a gate. It was open and its rotting timbers hung drunkenly from rust-eaten hinges. Painted roughly on it was the name — Cold Harbour Farm.

The track swung away to the left, and a little farther on we had our first glimpse of Cold Harbour Farm, a low, rambling building with a jumble of outhouses and a big barn at the farther end.

‘Sort o’ spooky, ain’t it?’ whispered Micky. It was one of those buildings that look dilapidated even at a first glance — an untidy place, with gables. There was still no sign of a tree, only the stunted gorse bushes. Neglect had allowed them to encroach to the very door.

We moved stealthily now, leaving the path and crossing what seemed once to have been a garden, for there were vestiges of rhododendrons and even roses amongst the choking growth of heather and gorse. We took the building in the flank and came out upon what had once been a gravel terrace. The gabled wing of the house looked dark and deserted. The roof tiles were green with moss and broken in places, and the woodwork of gables and windows was rotting. Everything was deathly still in the damp air. We crept round to the front. It was a long building and must at one time have been owned by quite a prosperous family. The sweeping outline of a drive was still visible amidst the chaos of the advancing heath. I gazed along the whole length of the decaying building. No chink of light showed in any of the windows. No sound disturbed the stillness of the night. Ivy had taken a stranglehold everywhere. Undisturbed, it billowed up even to the roof.

My heart sank as I looked at the place. I just couldn’t see Vayle making it his headquarters. London seemed a much more likely place for him to meet other agents. Out here in this God-forsaken spot every visitor would be bound to be noticed and commented upon by whatever local inhabitants still existed in the neighbourhood.

In any case, the house, being quite a big one, would in itself be a subject for gossip.

I went up to the front door. It was clearly not the original door, for it was of cheap deal with a brass handle. The brown paint was cracked and peeling. I tried it, and to my surprise it gave to my pressure, creaking slightly as I pushed it open.

We went in and I closed it behind us. All was silent in the darkness of the house. No, not quite. Faintly came the ticking of a clock. It sounded somehow homely, suggesting that the place was inhabited. I switched on my torch. We were in a big low-ceilinged hall. In front of us was a flight of narrow stairs covered with a threadbare carpet. The hall itself was flagged with here and there a tattered rug. There was a fine old refectory table with straight-backed chairs. The rest of the furniture was Victorian. The place looked dirty and neglected. The huge open fireplace was littered with fallen plaster, and the ceiling, which showed in strips between the heavy oak beams, was blackened and in places had crumbled so that the laths were visible.

I opened the door to. our left and flashed my torch round. It was a big room with Victorian furniture of the ugliest and most uncomfortable type, the walls covered with photographs and texts and every flat surface a jumble of knick-knacks. French windows led on to the terrace by which we had just approached the house. The heavy plush curtains were undrawn. There was no blackout and several panes were missing. The air felt damp and stale. The room was obviously not lived in.

‘Puts me in mind of one of them smash-up-the-‘appy-‘ome tents at the fair,’ whispered Micky. ‘I couldn’t ‘alf do something to all them little bits of china wiv a couple of cricket balls.’

I closed the door and we crossed the hall to the door at the far end. This led to a smaller and more homely room. The Victorian furniture had been blended with additions from Drages, and in the far corner a rather fine grandfather clock ticked away impassively, the brass of the pendulum nicking back and forth across the glass porthole of its case. The time was twelve-fifteen. There were the burnt-out cinders of a recent fire in the grate.

Back in the hall I tried the only door we had not yet looked through. This was to the left of the hearth and led to a cold brick-floored passage. I went down it full of a wretched feeling of depression. Either there had been nothing in the coincidence of Elaine Stuart and the injured workman both talking of Cold Harbour Farm whilst unconscious or else I had picked on the wrong one. I felt suddenly hot and chaotic with anxiety. If I had picked on the wrong one and something did happen this morning, it would be horrible. Looking back, my efforts to defeat Vayle seemed so puny and haphazardly organised — much too haphazardly organised.

I stopped before a door. Micky followed me, bumped into me. I suppose he must have put out his hand to keep his balance, for out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of something white falling, and the silence of the house was splintered by what seemed to be the most appalling crash. I turned the beam of my torch downwards. On the red brick floor lay the shattered remains of a white vegetable dish patterned with blue flowers. We stood motionless, listening. Not a sound disturbed the stillness of the house save the gentle ticking of the clock in the small room. In the quiet it had seemed shatteringly loud. If there were anyone in the house it must surely have woken them.

I opened the door and we passed through into a typical farmhouse kitchen, big and rambling, with sculleries, a boiler house and a lavatory. There was no sign of dirty crockery. We wandered through into the scullery. Beyond was what had once been the dairy. Most of the whitewash had powdered off the walls, but in a corner there was still the old butter churn. I don’t know why I had pursued my search of the house to the kitchen. I had no idea what I was searching for. I went on automatically. But I knew I should find nothing. The furniture, the dilapidation — it was all in keeping. This was no centre of a fifth columnist organisation. I felt sick with anxiety. It was a mistake to have left the ‘drome. I had laid myself open to a charge of desertion and gained nothing by it. I forgot in that moment that I had gone in fear of my life at the ‘drome.

We had just gone back into the kitchen when a pale light showed in the open doorway leading to the passage. I snapped my torch off. The light grew steadily brighter. There was a shuffling sound along the brick floor of the passage. I heard Micky’s sharp intake of breath close beside me. I stood there, fascinated by the light that showed the framework of the door and made dark shadows of every piece of peeling plaster. I made no attempt to hide.

Suddenly a guttering candle came into view. And the bony hand that held it shook slightly. And then appeared an apparition that seemed to have walked straight out of Dickens. It was an old gentleman dressed in a nightgown with a faded dressing-gown over it. He wore a red wooly night-cap and in his hand he held a poker. My first inclination was to laugh. It really was an incredible sight. But despite his costume he had a certain dignity. He stopped at the sight of us and blinked at us through his steel-rimmed glasses. ‘Soldiers, eh?’ he said.

I nodded. I suddenly felt a most frightful fool. Much more of a fool than when Vayle had caught me in his rooms. ‘I–I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘We thought the house was deserted. We were hitch-hiking home and lost our way trying to make a short-cut to the Eastbourne road. We thought we might find shelter for the night. The front door was open,’ I finished lamely.

‘Tut-tut,’ he said, and fingered his drooping white moustache. ‘Don’t say I forgot to lock the door again. I’m getting very forgetful. And the house is a little in need of repair. You want shelter for the night, you say?’

I nodded. I could think of nothing to say.

‘Well, well, I expect that could be arranged. It won’t be very comfortable, I fear. I’m a bit of a recluse these days — at least that’s what the neighbours think. Let me see now. There’s a room next to mine. There’s a double bed there and I expect we could find you some blankets. You’re quiet fellows, I hope?’ He peered at us closely. ‘I sleep very light now. Getting on, you know.’

‘Really, sir,’ I said, ‘It’s awfully kind of you. But we wouldn’t dream of bothering you.’

His eyes stopped blinking and looked straight into mine. They were very blue eyes, I remember. ‘You said you wanted shelter for the night, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, sir, but we — ‘

‘Well, then,’ he interrupted me, ‘don’t haver, man. It’s the least we can do for our gallant lads. Now you’ll be wanting something to eat, I expect. I see you had found your way to the kitchen all right.’ He chuckled as he shuffled over to the pantry.

It was an impossible situation. I looked at Micky. ‘Do we stay?’ I asked.

‘Course we stay,’ he whispered.

There was nothing else for it. I hadn’t the heart to walk out on the dear old boy. Besides, there was no point in doing so. We might just as well sleep here as anywhere else. If anything was going to happen that morning there was nothing I could do about it now. This was the wrong Cold Harbour Farm. That’s all there was to it. Probably there had never been a right one. God, what a fool!

The old boy fussed over us like a mother. We had cold ham — heaven knows where he got that ham from, for it was a big one — and bread and butter, and milk to drink. It wasn’t till I smelt that ham that I realised I was very hungry. I enjoyed that meal. He talked mostly of the Boer War. And afterwards he took us upstairs to a room under one of the gables. He gave us blankets and lit a candle for us. ‘Goodnight,’ he said, bobbing his funny little red cap at us. ‘I trust you sleep well.’ He closed the door on us and a second later the key ground in the lock.

That startled me a bit, I must say. My first reaction was to glance at the window. The room had evidently been a nursery at one time, for it had small iron bars across it. My instinct was to beat upon the door and demand that it be unlocked. But when I looked at Micky and then at myself in the black-marked mirror over the mantelpiece, I couldn’t altogether blame him. We looked a pretty disreputable pair, with dark rings of sleeplessness under our eyes and torn, dirty clothes.

Micky, who had as usual made a very heavy meal, threw himself on to the bed just as he was. The old boy’s a bit of orl right, ain’t he?’ he said. A grunt of satisfaction and he closed his eyes, not bothering about the blankets. Eating and sleeping were Micky’s sole recreations in the Army. There was nothing for it but to follow his example. I took off my battle blouse and shoes and lay down beside him, pulling a blanket up over me.

But sleep did not come easily. I was worried about what might happen. And I was worried, too, about how my escapade would be regarded. Would Ogilvie believe my explanation when I reported for duty again, or should I find myself under close arrest for desertion?

I suppose I must have dozed off, but I don’t remember waking. I just found myself suddenly in a state of complete consciousness and felt that I must have been awake all the time. Then I realised that my mind was alert yet not concentrated on the troubles that had been worrying me. For a moment I did not understand why this was. Then I heard it. Faintly came the sound of what I thought at first must be a car grinding along in bottom. I was just turning over to go to sleep again, thinking it must be on the main road, when I remembered that the road was some Distance away — too far for the sound to travel unless the wind carried it, and the night was still. Moreover, there was no reason for a car to be travelling along that road in bottom.

The sound gradually drew nearer. Suddenly I realised that it wasn’t a car at all. It was much heavier. And it was much nearer than the road. I jumped out of bed and went to the window. The moon was well up now, and though there was still a slight mist I could see something moving behind a clump of gorse bushes about five hundred yards away. When it came out into the open I saw it was a lorry. Another followed close behind and then a third. I watched them as they disappeared, merging into the mist. The sound of their engines gradually dwindled. I waited and was at last rewarded by the sight of a glimmer of light on the main road. Two other lights followed. They were moving south.

I glanced at my wrist-watch. It was just after one. Three hours to go to the first light of dawn. I hesitated. Those might have been Army lorries. But I remembered that the injured workman had spoken of driving to Cold Harbour. What I was looking for might not be at the farm itself. The farm might be quite harmless, and yet something — an arms dump, for instance — might be located in the vicinity and referred to as Cold Harbour for convenience.

But I still hesitated. I had lost all confidence in my own judgement. I was afraid of making a bigger fool of myself than I feared I had done already. And whilst I was standing there trying to figure it out there came again that faint sound of engines grinding in low gear. I watched the clump of gorse bushes behind which I had first seen the three lorries. There were four this time. I waited till I could see their lights on the main road. They, too, had turned south.

I swung round from the window, my mind suddenly made up.

‘Micky!’ I called softly, shaking him by the shoulder. ‘Micky! Wake up!’

‘Uh?’ He rolled over and blinked his eyes at me sleepily. ‘Wasamatter?’

‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ I told him.

‘I don’t see why. We’re very comfortable, ain’t we?’

‘Yes, but there’s something funny going on.’

‘You just tell me when to laugh,’ he mumbled, ‘and I’ll laugh.’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ I said, and shook him violently.

‘Orl right, orl right,’ he grumbled and climbed off the bed. ‘Wot’s the trouble?’

I told him what I had seen. ‘I want to try and find out where the lorries are coming from and what they’re carrying. And we haven’t much time,’ I added. I had got into my battle top and was putting on my shoes.

‘Probably the poor bleedin’ infantry doing night ops.,’ he said unhelpfully. He was still half asleep.

I went over to the window. It was a drop of about twenty feet and it wasn’t a soft landing. However, the ivy looked pretty tough. The only difficulty was the bars. They were much stronger than most nursery window bars. Moreover, when I looked at them closely I found that they were not the type that screw into the window frame, but had been cemented into deep sockets.

I looked more closely at the cement, scraping the coat of paint away with my clasp knife. It wasn’t new, but I was certain that it was very much newer than the window frame in which it was set.

It was then that the scales suddenly fell from my eyes. These bars were not here because the room had once been a nursery. And the door had not been locked just because we looked pretty desperate characters. The old man was a fake.

I tugged with all my strength at the bars. They did not move. Micky came and considered my efforts. ‘You’ll never loosen those, mate,’ he said. ‘Better try the door.’

‘That’s locked,’ I said as we went over to it.

‘Well, it can be unlocked, can’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I said, amazed at his denseness, ‘but the key happens to be on the other side.’

‘Gimme your clasp knife. I flogged mine one night when I was tight.’

I unhooked the knife from my lanyard. He opened the spike and inserted it in the lock. A few minutes later I heard the key drop on the other side of the door.

‘It’s easy if you’ve got the right tool,’ Micky muttered as he gently worked the spike in the lock. This thing is too thick by’alf.’

There was nothing I could do to help. I stood by and waited in a fever of anxiety for fear he wouldn’t be able to do it. But at last there was a click and he straightened up.

‘Cor lumme,’ he said, ‘I ain’t lost me touch, ‘ave I? Come in useful when I get demobbed, won’t it?’ and he gave me a wink.

‘Grand!‘I said. ‘Let’s go.’

Quietly I turned the handle of the door and opened it. The passage outside was dark after our room, which had been flooded with moonlight. I put my head out of the door and glanced up and down. There appeared to be no-one there. I flashed my torch. The passage was empty. As I stepped out into it there was a slight sound at the far end of the stairs. I stopped dead, poised on one foot. The house was deathly still. Nothing stirred. And faintly came the tick of the grandfather clock.

It might have been a mouse, or even a rat — the place was probably infested with both. I started forward again. Micky shut the door of our room behind us. We made the stairs and still the house was silent about us.

But as we descended I began to find it an oppressive silence. I had an unpleasant feeling of panic — a desire to run out of the place before those silent walls closed about us for ever. It was one of those houses that have atmosphere. I had not noticed it when I first entered it, flushed with a sense of adventure. But now that I knew the place to be hostile I was frightened of the atmosphere, an atmosphere of sly violence that made its Victorian apparel appear no more than a smug veneer.

But we made the front door without disturbing that silence. I drew the bolts and undid the chain. The lock was, for a wonder, well oiled and the key turned with scarcely a sound. I opened it and the moonlight flooded the hall in a great swathe, lighting the refectory table and the great fireplace with a ghostly pallor. I was thankful when Micky had closed the door behind us.

We moved along the house to the left and made open country in the shadow of the barn. As soon as we were in the heather I broke into a trot. I could just see the clump of gorse bushes behind which the lorries had passed. It took us only a few minutes to reach it, and about a hundred yards farther on we came upon a grass track half grown over with heather. Though the ground was hard it was possible to see the tracks of the lorries faintly marked where the wheels had beaten down heather and grass. It looked like the path that had forked off from the Cold Harbour Farm track.

We set off down it in the direction from which the lorries had come. We hadn’t gone far before we had to go to cover in order to let three more lorries rumble past. ‘Here, wot’s the idea?’ Micky demanded as we scrambled out of the heather and regained the track. ‘Them was R.A.F. lorries.’

‘That’s what we’ve got to find out,’ I said.

I was quite convinced now that I was on to something. Obviously if Vayle wanted to get something, such as arms or explosives, with which to assist an air landing, into our fighter ‘dromes, he had to use R.A.F. lorries and men in R.A.F. uniform driving them. Provided they had the necessary passes, they would be admitted to the aerodromes. No questions would be asked and the lorries would not be searched.

Almost unconsciously I had increased the pace until at last the track bore away to the right and dipped into a big gravel pit. We left the path here and, crouching low, struck farther right, keeping to the level ground until at last we came out on the edge of the pit. We wormed our way forward until we could look over the edge.

Micky gasped as he crawled up beside me. Parked in the pit below us were more than thirty big R.A.F. lorries. At the time I wondered how they had managed to obtain so many Air Force vehicles. Later I learnt that the organisation included men in the motor transport section of most of the fighter stations. The place seemed alive with men in R.A.F. uniforms. Some were sergeants, Alt mostly they were just aircraftmen. I saw no officers. The lorries were being loaded with what appeared to be large compressed-air cylinders. They looked very much like the hydrogen cylinders used for inflating barrage balloons. They were being brought from a hole in the far side of the pit. There were big piles of gravel on either side of the entrance, suggesting that the cache had been hidden by a heap of this gravel.

The lorries nearest the entrance to the pit appeared to have been loaded up. The drivers of the first three stood in a group chatting, obviously waiting for the order to move off. Many of the aircraftmen engaged in loading the lorries farther down the line had belts with revolvers in holsters. There were guards armed with rifles at the entrance to the pit where the ground rose to the level of the surrounding heath, and there were also several patrolling the edge of the pit. This caused me some uneasiness and I kept an eye on our rear and flank. But there seemed to be no guard near where we lay.

Then from behind one of the lorries walked a figure I knew. It was Vayle. I recognised his quick, purposeful walk despite the officer’s uniform he wore. He went straight up the line of lorries to the drivers of the first three. Some twenty men followed him. I would have given anything to hear what he said to those men. The conversation did not last more than a minute. Then he glanced at his watch and a second later they had climbed into the lorries and the engines came to life. The men who had followed him piled into the backs of the lorries, about seven in each. The gears of the first grated and it swung out of the line towards the entrance. The other two followed. A moment later they disappeared and the sound of their engines gradually faded on the still night air.

Vayle came back along the line of lorries. His step was light and buoyant. There was pride and confidence in that step. I didn’t like it. He came over to our side of the pit. I thrust my head a little farther forward so that I could see him directly below me. Four men were standing there, silent, their hands and feet restless. Vayle walked straight up to them. ‘Any questions?’ he asked. His voice, crisp and commanding, was just audible to me. ‘Good. The time is exactly one forty-six.’ He had waited for the precise minute, looking all the time at what appeared to be a stop-watch. They checked their watches by his. The timing was apparently an important factor. ‘You’re quite dear about everything?’ They nodded. ‘Make certain that the smoke containers are well covered. Argue rather than shoot. And see that the runway is clearly indicated. Fifty feet is the height. All right?’ Again they nodded. ‘You’d better start, then. Good luck to you.’ They saluted. It was an Air Force Salute, but somehow it was not quite an English salute — the body was too tense, the heels pressed too tightly together. They moved off to the next four lorries. Men began to pile into the back of them, again seven to each lorry.

‘Don’t move!’

The order came from behind us. My heart was in my mouth as I turned my head. Standing over us were three men. Two were guards. They had us covered with their rifles. The third was a civilian, and he had a revolver. It was he who had spoken. ‘Stand up!’ he ordered.

We clambered to our feet. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

‘Just watching,’ I said, wondering what attitude to adopt. ‘What’s going on?’

‘That’s none of your business,’ was the reply. ‘This is R.A.F. property. I shall have to hold you until we prove your identity.’

‘What is this — secret?’ I asked.

He did not answer my question. ‘See if they’re armed,’ he told one of the guards. ‘Put up your hands.’ The man stepped forward and ran his fingers quickly over us. ‘Unarmed,’ he reported.

‘All right. Take them away and see that they don’t escape. We’ll deal with them later.’

‘Wot’s the idea?’ Micky demanded. We ain’t doing no ‘arm. If this is private property, why don’t you put a fence round it?’

Take ‘em away,’ the man commanded, and the two guards closed in on either side of us.

To attempt escape was out of the question. They would pick us off before we had gone a dozen yards. And to wait for a chance that would probably never occur was equally hopeless, since minutes had become vital. The lorries were moving off, batch by batch, to a definite schedule. I knew something now of what the plan was — smoke to hamper ground defences as parachutists and troop carriers were landed on our most vital aerodromes. Something had to be done, and done quickly. ‘I want to speak to Mr Vayle,’ I said. The man’s quick glance of surprise did not escape me. ‘It’s important,’ I added.

‘I don’t get you.’ The man’s voice was wooden. He was giving nothing away.

‘You understand perfectly,’ I replied.

‘Who is Mr Vayle?’

‘Will you stop arguing,’ I said angrily. ‘In case you are not aware of it, your officer’s name is Vayle, and he is librarian at Thorby aerodrome. Now will you kindly take me to him at once. There’s no time to waste.’

‘What do you want to see him for?’

‘That is a matter between him and myself,’ I replied.

He hesitated. Then he said, ‘All right.’

We were escorted along the edge of the pit, the two guards on either side and our civilian captor bringing up the rear. We entered the pit by way of the track. As we walked down the line of lorries, the men standing about fell silent. There were signs of nervousness in their interest. I was not surprised. It was a perilous game they were playing. It meant death if they were caught, and death was a possibility even if their plan succeeded.

Vayle turned as we came up to him. He was watching the loading of the last few lorries. He showed no surprise at the sight of us — only anger. ‘What the hell have you brought these men here for, Ferret?’

‘They got away from the house, as you expected, sir,’ replied our guard. ‘I arrested them at the edge of the pit over there.’

‘Yes, yes. But why the devil must you bother me with them? You know the orders. Take ‘em away!’

‘Yes, sir. But this man’ — he indicated me — ‘knew your name and insisted that he must see you. He said it was important.’

Vayle swung round on me. ‘Well, what is it, Hanson?’ he demanded sharply.

He was impatient at our intrusion. This was his big moment. He had worked for this for the past six years. He had made provision for everything — even for me. I could understand his irritation.

‘I thought you might be interested to know that the game is up. The authorities at Thorby know the whole plot.’ It was thin, but it was the best I could do on the spur of the moment.

The lift of his thick eyebrows proclaimed his disbelief. He had planned carefully and his confidence was unshakable. I felt myself getting rattled. ‘You tried to kill me,’ I went on. ‘But you didn’t succeed.’ Then I suddenly remembered. ‘I told Winton everything. He didn’t believe me at first. But when I snowed him the diagram that was planted on me, he was sufficiently convinced to take precautions.’

As soon as I mentioned that diagram I saw a sudden doubt mirrored in his eyes. He hesitated. Then he laughed. It was an easy, natural laugh. ‘It’s no good, Hanson. If Winton really had taken precautions, why should you bother to warn me? Why should you have come out here at all?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Excuse me a moment.’ He left us and went down the line to give his blessing to the next group of lorries.

As soon as they had left, he came back to where we stood waiting. He was smiling and his eyes, which rested for a moment on mine, were cold. ‘Well, Hanson,’ he said, ‘this is the parting of the ways, I think. I go on — I hope — to a great victory, a victory that will make even the collapse of France look small. In. a sense it will be my victory, for this is my scheme, and without the fighter ‘dromes we could not invade Britain.’

He paused, and for a moment he was no longer with us. His eyes had a far-away look. He was gazing at the castle of victory that his imagination had built for him. And then suddenly his eyes snapped out of their trance and became alive again. ‘And you,’ he said, ‘you go on —.’ He spread his hands in a singularly foreign gesture. ‘I am sorry,’ he went on. ‘I admire your nerve and brains. You saw something the others could not. And when you tried to tell them they wouldn’t listen. It’s a pity that you weren’t content to sleep peacefully at Cold Harbour in the belief that you were mistaken. I knew Ryan would fool you. He’s a dear old man. And so right in that setting. Did he talk to you about the Boer War?’

I nodded.

‘I thought so. But I expect he omitted to mention the fact that he fought for the Boers, not the English. When he rang through to me, he told me that all your suspicions of the place had been allayed. What revived them? Was it the lorries?’

Again I nodded.

‘Yes, I was afraid of that. It was my reason for having Ferret watch you.’ Once again he glanced at his watch. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘your activities have added a certain zest to the game. I am glad to have known you. Goodbye.’ He bowed quite naturally and quite seriously. Then he addressed the man called Ferret. ‘Get ‘em into their lorry and drive it back past the Roebuck on to the hill down into Forest Row. There’s quite a steep drop on the first bend; tip it over there and set fire to it. You understand?’

‘I understand, sir.’

The tone of the man’s voice was significant. Vayle turned away. The matter was settled. It was not even a tense moment. There was nothing to grip one’s imagination. There was nothing emotional or stirring about his words. The order had been given quietly, matter-of-factly. It might have been an ordinary everyday matter. Yet, in fact, it was cold-blooded murder. And the strange thing was there was nothing sinister about Vayle, no animosity in the way he spoke. I could not hate him. I even found it difficult to blame him. Micky and I were just pawns that threatened his queen, pieces of grit that could mar the smooth-working machinery of his scheme. It was necessary that we should die. In the interests of his country he had given the necessary orders. He had shown no morbid interest in our reaction to his death sentence. He had made no attempt to gloat over our wretchedness. It made murder seem so natural. Two slugs had got in his cabbage patch and he had trodden on them.

That was my first reaction — surprise at murder done without feeling. But fear followed as we stumbled between our guards across the heath. Ferret led us straight back to our lorry. It was quite evident that he knew exactly where it was. At first I could barely realise that those quiet, simple words of Vayle’s meant that we should be dead in a few minutes’ time. But after we had been trussed with ropes and bundled into the back of the lorry with a tarpaulin over us, I began to grasp the full significance of those orders. ‘ — and set fire to it.’ Should we still be alive when they did that? Was death by fire quick? I began to shiver. What was it like to die? I had never thought about it much. It all seemed so incredible. If only I had fallen asleep like Micky and had never heard the lorries grinding across the heath. Yet if Vayle’s plans succeeded, all our gun team would probably be dead, too, in an hour’s time.

I rolled over in the darkness. ‘Micky!’ I spoke softly, for I knew one of the guards had come in the back of the lorry with us. ‘Micky!’

‘Wot is it?’ His voice sounded hoarse and strained.

‘I’m sorry, Micky,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think it would end like this.’

He did not answer. I felt he must be angry. He had every right to be. ‘Micky,’ I said again. ‘I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. It’s just one of those things. A bit of luck and we’d have pulled off something big. He was too clever for us.’

I heard him say something, but his words were lost in the jolting of the lorry as it gathered speed on the rough lane leading down to the main road. ‘What did you say?’ I asked.

I suddenly found his face close to mine. ‘Stop shooting ye mouth off, can’t you?’ he said quietly. ‘I’m lying on your jack-knife. It must ‘ave fallen out of your pocket when they pitched us in ‘ere. I’m trying to open it.’

I lay still, not daring to hope, wondering what chance we had even if we did manage to cut ourselves out of the rope that bound our arms and legs. It was pitch dark under the tarpaulin, and it smelt strongly of malt. The jolting of the lorry hurt my shoulder. I wriggled over on to my other side. As I did so the lorry swung sharp left, flinging me on to my back and banging my head against the floor boards. After that the going was smoother. We had turned on to the main road. I leaned over towards Micky. ‘We’ve only got about four minutes,’ I said.

‘Orl right, orl right,’ he grumbled. ‘Don’t fuss. I’ve got the bloody thing open.’

I could feel his body against mine. It was rigid as he struggled to cut through the ropes. Then suddenly it relaxed and he brought his feet up. His right arm moved stealthily — but freely.

‘Yes, but what do we do when we’ve cut ourselves free?’ I whispered. I felt helpless and rather a fool. The initiative should have been mine. I had got the lad into this scrape and felt it was up to me to get him out of it. Yet the leadership had passed from me.

His arm moved and his hand took hold of my arm, feeling for the rope. ‘You’ll see,’ he whispered as he sawed at my bonds. A strand gave and then the knife slipped and cut into my hand. But my arms were free. A second later my feet were free too.

He stretched away from me a moment and then put his mouth close to my ear. ‘I can feel the end of the tarpaulin,’ he said. ‘You gotta take a chance. Move slowly to the other side of the truck as though you was still bound, and start ‘ollering like you suffered from clausterphoby — ain’t it? I want ‘is attention on you, see? Leave the rest to me.’

‘O.K.,‘I said.

He wriggled back against his side of the lorry. He took my jack-knife with him. His foot tapped my leg. I slid along the floor as far as I could without disturbing the tarpaulin. As soon as I felt it pressing against my back, I put my arms against my side and braced my legs together, so that I moved forward exactly as though I were still bound. At the same time I began to yell, ‘Let me out! Let me out! I can’t stand it. Everything is black.’

I heard the guard’s feet move towards me. I tensed, nerving myself for the blow. And at the same time I kept yelling to be let out. His boot caught me in the ribs, rolling me on to the floor and knocking the breath out of me. But I began to scream.

‘Shut up, you bastard, or I’ll club you with my rifle.’

I put my arm up to protect my head and continued to scream. I heard the sling swivels of his rifle rattle. I did not hear him raise it but I sensed it.

The blow never fell, however. There was a faint choking sound, and then the rifle clattered on the floor of the lorry. A second later his body thudded on the boards. I struggled clear of the tarpaulin to see Micky retrieve my jack-knife from the man’s throat. I felt slightly sick. Blood was bubbling up in great gouts where the knife had been. Against the red of his neck his face looked horribly pallid in the moonlight.

The driver of the lorry suddenly braked. I glanced at the glass window at the back of the cabin. It had been slid back and the barrel of a revolver suddenly appeared. It was pointing at Micky. ‘Duck!’ I yelled.

He dropped in the instant, and as he dropped, the revolver cracked and the bullet sang through the air in the direction in which he had been standing. I dived for the body. Subconsciously, I suppose I had noticed the man’s revolver when I first saw him lying on the boards, though the only thing I had consciously recorded was his throat. I slipped it from its holster and dived back to the shelter of the cabin, where Micky had already taken cover. The revolver turned, nosing blindly in our direction. It was the civilian, Ferret, who had fired. But now he could not see us without leaning right across the driver. The lorry was drawing up. There was only one thing to do, and I did it.

I fired through the back of the cabin at the point where I thought his head would be. I hadn’t fired a service revolver since my schooldays when I was at Bisley. My arm must have been too slack, for the kick was much greater than I had expected. This, coupled with the fact that the lorry swerved badly, caused me to lose my balance, and I fell headlong into the middle of the tarpaulin. For a moment I thought I had hit the driver by mistake. But by the time I had picked myself up he had got the lorry back on to the road again.

The brakes were no longer being applied. At the same time he was not accelerating. It was clear that he was undecided what to do. I peered cautiously through the little window of the cabin. Ferret was huddled in a heap over the gears. I couldn’t tell if he was dead or not, but he had a nasty wound across the side of his head.

I poked my gun through the window. ‘Draw up,’ I ordered the driver.

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes. He saw the gun and braked.

‘Get that rifle,’ I told Micky. ‘I’ll cover him from here. As soon as the lorry stops, jump out and cover him from the roadway.’

He nodded. ‘Orl right,’ he said, and picked up the rifle. An instant later the lorry jerked to a stop. He was over the side before the wheels had stopped moving. ‘Put your hands up,’ I told the driver. ‘Now get down.’ There was no fight in him. He climbed down into the roadway, his hands above his head. He was a big, thick-set man and his bewilderment and fear were almost comical. I suppose he thought he was going to die. I got down from the back of the lorry and took his revolver from its holster. Turn round,’ I ordered. As soon as he had done so I passed the revolver to Micky, barrel foremost. ‘Do you know how to knock a man out without killing him?’ I asked in a whisper.

‘You just watch me,’ he said.

He spat on his right hand and a second later he hit the man. The thud of it seemed to go right through me. Yet I saw him crumple up on the ground with a complete sense of detachment.

We pulled him to the side of the road and bound him with the rope that had been used for us. I stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth and put a length of rope round his head to keep the gag in. Then we got the other two bodies out of the lorry. Both of them were dead — the bullet I had fired at Ferret had cracked the man’s skull. We dragged them into the wood that bordered the road and hid them in some rhododendron bushes.

Then we went back to.the lorry and drove on. I had driven fast on my way out to Cold Harbour, but on the return journey I pushed the Bedford to the limit of its speed. We had all too little time to spare. As we swept by the Roebuck and down the long hill with the bend on which we were to have been murdered, I saw that it was past three. And though I drove as fast as I dared, we did not run into Thorby village until twenty past.

‘I’m going into the camp by the way I came out,’ I told Micky. ‘Are you still deserting or are you coming in with me?’

‘I weren’t deserting,’ he shouted angrily. ‘I were just transferring. You know that.’

‘Well, are you still going to transfer yourself, or are you staying with me?’

‘I never deserted a pal yet.’

‘You mean, you’re returning to camp with me?’

‘I suppose so. But why d’you have to make it more difficult for us by going back the same way? Anyone would think it was a bloody obstacle race. Why not drive up to the main gate and ask to see old man Winton?’

‘Because time is precious,’ I said. And as I spoke we passed the turning that led to the main gates of the aerodrome. ‘Besides,’ I added, slowing down, ‘Winton probably wouldn’t believe me. We’ve got to get hold of those lorries before we tackle Winton.’ I stopped the lorry. ‘Come on, this is where we came out.’

We were half way down the hill, and as soon as we had climbed out I released the brake and let the lorry run. That’ll distract their attention,’ I said, and led the way through the barbed-wire fence and into the wood that lay directly below our gun site.