Introductions were made and Bergman found himself shaking hands with Grenville. The pilot’s eyes stared into his own, assessing him, coldly speculative on his role in the conference.
Davies, who knew Grenville, exchanged a few warm words with him, then took his place behind Barrett’s desk. His quick, keen eyes flickered on each man in turn.
“The first thing I’m going to impress on you,” he began, “is the need for absolute secrecy in everything you’re going to hear. Not only Lieutenant Bergman’s life, but the lives of hundreds of others could be lost by careless talk. In fact,” and his voice was grim, “God knows just what isn’t at stake in this show, so keep your mouths buttoned right up.”
He threw a glance at Bergman, smiling now. “As you’re going to find out in a moment, the Lieutenant here isn’t quite all he seems. But as far as the rest of this squadron goes, he is a Norwegian Naval Officer who has come here to find out what makes the R.A.F. tick, and also to act as a liaison officer between you and naval affairs in northern waters. Most bomber squadrons get a naval officer sooner or later, and this is yours. Look after him and play up to him. That’s something you can let out of the bag.”
He stared briefly out of the window, then turned to them again, his voice lower now. “In actual fact Lieutenant Bergman is a liaison officer acting between the Norwegian Linge—that’s their resistance movement— and our own Special Services. He used to spend most of his time over in Norway, tipping us off by wireless about shipping movements and that sort of thing. Now, however, he has handed those duties over to one of his assistants because he has made a discovery too important to be mentioned over the radio, even in code. During the last few months he has been nipping backwards and forwards, sometimes by sea, sometimes by air, to find out what more he can do about it, and also, of course, to keep his resistance men organized. Now it seems things have gone far enough for us to be called in to help.
“Now I can’t tell you what the job is going to be, because I don’t know myself yet. Frankly, I was only told this little bit three days ago and then, I suspect”— and he threw a wry smile at Bergman—“only because the powers-that-be decided it would look less suspicious if your squadron orders came through Group in the ordinary way instead of direct from Special Services. But this much I can tell you....
“You’re going to operate with these Norwegian patriots. You’re going to drop supplies to them when they need them, and you’re going to make any attacks Lieutenant Bergman thinks necessary. I hope he finds plenty necessary because then it’ll help to justify your existence to Bomber Command, who loaned you to Special Services with the greatest reluctance. They don’t know what is behind all this, either. But, according to Lieutenant Bergman and a certain gentleman I cannot name, you’re going to be given the biggest job you’ve ever tackled within the next few months, and you have to start training for it shortly. No, don’t ask me what it is—I haven’t a clue. All I’m told is that it’s immensely important and that you’ll need to be trained to perfection to carry it out. Now I’m going to let Lieutenant Bergman take over for a minute or two. He might enlighten you a little more—we’ll see. Lieutenant Bergman....”
All three men watched the fair-headed Norwegian intently as he rose to address them, and all felt disappointment when he gave a rueful shake of his head.
“I am very sorry, gentlemen, but the Air Commodore has covered everything that I am allowed to tell you at the moment. Of course, when training starts, you will have to be told more, but until then I have the strictest instructions to say nothing about this discovery. I can only assure you that its importance cannot be exaggerated.”
He sat down apologetically. Davies shrugged his shoulders. “Well; there it is—very hush-hush indeed. Your guesses are as good as mine.” He turned to Bergman. “All right, you can’t talk about the big job. But what about the preliminary stuff leading up to it? What about that convoy you were talking about that has a bearing on it?”
“I’m waiting for news of it now. It should come through in the next day or two.”
Davies gave his attention now to Barrett and Grenville. “From his contacts the Lieutenant has been tipped off that a fair-sized enemy convoy, anchored in a fjord to the north of Bergen, might be making a dash southwards in the next few days.
“There’s no hope of getting it at anchor, but it’ll be a different matter when it sails. It’s obviously a job for us because, apart from the time factor, it will be at the wrong side of the minefields for the Navy. That’s why I want you operational at the earliest opportunity; we must play safe. . . . Get your kites air-tested today and don’t let your men wander far away. Lieutenant Bergman will give you all the details once I’ve gone so you’ll be ready when the green light comes through. All right; any questions before I go?”
Grenville’s face was expressionless, but Barrett was shuffling restlessly in his chair. Davies’s keen eyes fixed on him.
“Any questions, Wing Commander?”
Barrett looked slightly uncomfortable. “I don’t quite follow how the machinery of this is going to work,” he said gruffly. “I don’t mean regarding the big job— we’ll hear about that later—I mean on the preliminary stuff—such as the dropping of supplies or this shipping strike. Does the Lieutenant give his orders to me, or do they come through from Group?”
A delicate diplomatic point. Bergman, in appearance at least, was a junior of rank to Barrett. Davies made it clear the point had not been overlooked.
“Orders will come through from Group, from me,” he said without undue emphasis. “After I have given them, you can then approach the Lieutenant for the finer details. Sometimes—as in the case of this shipping strike—it may be necessary for him to attend the briefings. If so, I’ll tell you. When that happens the crews must think he is there on Admiralty orders. Quite clear?”
Apparently it was. Barrett’s moustache lost its temporary agitation as he sank back into his seat.
Adams spoke for the first time. “I take it arrangements will be made for a full range of photographs and maps to be sent me, sir?”
“You’ll be getting a cartload,” Davies told him. “They should be on their way now. Anything else?”
His eyes moved on to Grenville, but the Squadron Commander’s expression did not change. There was silence in the room, every man knowing the futility of asking the questions he had in mind. Davies nodded and picked up his gloves.
“Right; then I’m off. They haven’t finished with me back there—.God knows what else they have brewing for us. Keep on your toes in the meantime; the green light for this shipping strike might come on at any time.”
He paused at the door, his quick, bright eyes flickering from man to man. “And mind you look after your new naval officer! From what I can gather he’s worth more than a division of men just now.”
Barrett saw him out to his station wagon. As it pulled away down the tarmac road, an airman, coming out of the nearby Orderly Room, let out a wolf cry on seeing the pretty W.A.A.F. driver, only to freeze into horrified silence as Davies glanced out of the window. His consternation increased when he noticed Barrett not twenty yards away.
Barrett scowled and returned to his office. He put a call through to his Maintenance Officer, then turned to Grenville. “Townsend says all the kites will be ready for air-testing by 1500 except for M Mary. Some are ready now. You’d better go round and tip off your crews. No wait. ... Maybe we’d better first have a chat with Lieutenant Bergman about this strike, so we know what we’re in for. Then you can take him round with you and introduce him to the boys. Adams, I’ll want to see you again this afternoon. Say at 1500 hours....”
* * *
Half an hour later Bergman accompanied Grenville to the Flight Offices. He felt a certain diffidence while walking along the tarmac with him: Grenville was taciturn and the Norwegian’s own training had done nothing to make idle talk'come easily. As a result they walked most of the way in silence.
It was a bitter
afternoon, the wind probing bleakly among the Nissen huts and sweeping unmolested over the scarred, cement-stained ground. Over to the east a dark bank of clouds was massing, waiting impatiently for the brief winter day to end. As they came in sight of the airfield Bergman saw the squadron’s Bostons at their dispersal points, each surrounded by its attentive mechanics.
A Naafi girl was coming out of A Flight office carrying a trayful of tea mugs as they approached. Grenville held back the door, motioning for Bergman to enter. The Norwegian went in curiously. The air was thick with cigarette smoke. Groups of Flight crews were clustered round the room, some playing cards, others swapping yams. The Flight Commander, “Teddy” Young, was sitting with his cap tipped over his eyes and feet up on his desk, miraculously dozing in spite of the blaring wireless and din around him. Young was an Australian who had worked his way over to England at the beginning of the war with the express purpose of joining the R.A.F. He was a powerfully built, gingerheaded man with a slow Australian drawl.
Somone shook him. He saw Grenville and rose at once. “Hello, skipper,” he said, reaching out and turning off the wireless. “What can I do for you?”
The Flight crews eyed one another curiously, clearly puzzled by the presence of a naval officer. Someone let out a raspberry, quickly suppressed as Grenville stared around. A respectful silence followed.
“I want you to get your kites air-tested as soon as possible,” Grenville said. “And then keep your men within call. No twenty-four-hour passes.”
Young’s expression was curious. “What’s coming up, skipper?”
“You’ll hear that later,” Grenville said. “All you have to do now is get your kites tested and keep your men within reach.”
Young shrugged but showed no resentment, a fact that told Bergman much about Grenville’s popularity with his men.
“O.K., skipper. Fair enough. I’ll keep ’em around.”
Grenville motioned casually to Bergman. “By the way; this is Lieutenant Bergman. He’s been sent to us by the Navy as a liaison officer. If you’re nice to him he might get you some of those duty-free cigarettes.”
Laughs came, easing the slight tension. After brief introductions, Grenville took Bergman out, leaving Young ’phoning up the N.C.O. in charge of Maintenance.
They crossed over to B Flight office. B Flight was commanded by Sam Milner, an American who had joined the R.A.F. in 1939. Milner looked more like a professional man than a pilot, being neat and meticulous of appearance. Townsend, the Maintenance Officer and one of the station wits, said that even in flying kit Milner could make a pair of dangling earphones look like a Doctor’s stethoscope. Nevertheless, Milner was one of 633’s top three pilots.
He nodded at Grenville’s introduction and shook hands with Bergman. “We wouldn’t be doing any shipping strikes, would we, Lieutenant?” he drawled.
There was a groan from the crews in the office. A buzz of speculation broke out after the Norwegian and Grenville left them and went outside.
“That should cover the security angle,” Grenville said “Now we’d better see the adjutant about some quarters for you.”
Ignoring Bergman’s protests that he could arrange this himself, Grenville led him towards the Administration block. The path they were taking took them near a Boston that was going up for air-testing. As they approached, its pilot opened up his two Cyclone engines, sending a cloud of gravel rattling against the metal roof of a Nissen hut.
Watching it, Bergman became aware of a disturbing sense of responsibility. All these highly trained men to whom he had been introduced were to risk their lives on the strength of his information in the weeks to come. Mistakes would mean losses, perhaps losses of friends. Until his own time came to go back into action, he knew he would be happier if allowed to share some of the missions with them.
He put a hand on Grenville’s arm and tried to speak but the bellow of the engines drowned his voice. Grenville waited until the Boston rolled away, his face expressionless.
“Can you arrange for me to come with you on this shipping raid?” Bergman asked. “There are men on the coast giving signals—it is something new and I would like to make certain it works satisfactorily.”
Grenville’s voice was by nature curt. It was doubly so now. “That’s out of the question. Right out.”
“Why?” the Norwegian asked.
“You can’t go on a shipping strike! To begin with we’ve no room for you and in any case it’s far too dicey.”
“What do you mean by dicey? Dangerous?” Understatement was Grenville’s way. It was not easy now for him to give the facts. He pulled up the collar of his greatcoat, a gesture of irritation.
“Shipping strikes are always dicey. The flak is heavy and accurate, and you have to fly through it to get your target. That means losses, often heavy ones. It’s quite obvious you couldn’t be risked on a show like that.” “But my life is no more important than yours, or your men’s!”
“Davies didn’t say that! His last words were that we should look after you. Taking you on a shipping strike would hardly be doing that.” Grenville looked down at his watch impatiently. “Let’s get over to the adjutant, please. I’d like to get my kite air-tested before lunch.” Bergman checked him again. “I don’t think you understand. I’m not under Air Commodore Davies’s orders. If I wish to go, I am quite free to do so. And I would like to go.”
Grenville, never patient of temper, was losing it now. “And I’m saying you can’t go. We’ve no spare kites for passengers; can’t you get that into your head? And you can’t go in anyone’s place. Operational flying isn’t a game for amateurs. A passenger could cause the death of the whole crew.” His voice became brutally frank. “You do your job, Bergman, and let me do mine. Tell me what to sink, and I’ll try to sink it. But don’t go wanting a place in the grandstand, for God’s sake.”
Bergman could also be stubborn. “Why can’t I go as a gunner? I have used machine-guns before. And perhaps before we go I could have an hour or two’s instruction on how to use the turret.”
“Don’t be a fool, man. You can’t learn aerial gunnery in two hours.”
Bergman was determined not to use his power to demand a passage until the last resort. “I know that, but it is not likely you will run into fighters on this raid, so that gunners will not be in action. And I might be needed to locate the convoy.” Feeling he had won a point, he went on quickly: “Let me go, please. I would feel much happier sharing the raid with you----”
Grenville did not miss the meaning or the sincerity of the Norwegian’s last words. At that moment the Boston, which had been rolling down the runway, turned and began her take-off. A few seconds later she passed over them with a crackling roar. Grenville’s eyes followed it, then dropped back on Bergman.
“I can see a point in your risking your neck to make sure the operation is a success,” he said curtly, refusing to concede, even to himself, that sentiment had in any way influenced his change of mind. “If you think it will do that, then come along. I suppose we can manage somehow.”
Bergman showed his pleasure. “Thank you. If you would introduce me to my pilot, perhaps I could go up with him on his tests this afternoon....”
“If you go with anyone, you go with me,” Grenville said. Ignoring the Norwegian’s thanks he looked down again at his watch. “I think we’d better do an air-test now, and fix up your quarters after lunch. Come on, then. I’ll take you to the stores and you can draw your flying kit.”
Now that the affair was settled Grenville showed no resentment. Indeed his tone seemed more friendly, and Bergman ventured an unrelated question as they carried his flying kit and parachute towards the Squadron office.
“Do you know of any rooms to let in these parts? I have a sister I would like to get down here. We have not met for rather a long time.”
“You’ve got a sister over here?’’ Grenville asked in surprise.
“Yes. We were both in England when the Germans invaded Norway. I was
at university at the time.”
“You’d better see Adams. He has just got his wife a room in an old pub opposite the airfield. As a matter of fact I believe she arrives today. He says there are other empty rooms. You should ask him to take you over.”
“I will,” Bergman nodded gratefully.
Grenville put a ’phone call through to his observer, the cheery, freckle-faced Hoppy, and then the two men changed into their flying clothes. Fifteen minutes later A Apple, the Boston with the distinctive red spinner caps, was thundering across the airfield and heading towards the distant clouds.
5
Just after lunch Adams made his way down the road to the Black Swan. The east wind was stirring the bare twigs of the hedges, and he was grateful for the wanner air that met him as he entered the lounge. Kearns came round from the bar to greet him.
“Good afternoon,” Adams said. “Has my wife arrived yet?”
“Aye, sir; she got in about an hour ago. Do you want me to give her a call?”
“No; don’t bother. I’ll go up and see her.”
“All right, sir. Come through this way.”
Adams tapped on the upstairs bedroom door, then entered. A slim, fashionably dressed woman was sitting on the bed opposite him, smoking a cigarette. She was about thirty, with dark, well-groomed hair, and a narrow, elegant face. At her feet was an opened suitcase with half its contents strewn on the floor around her.
Adams closed the door and went over eagerly, bending down to kiss her. She let him touch her cheek, then turned away sharply. Adams’ face dropped at once.
“Sorry I couldn’t meet you in, darling,” he muttered. “We had an urgent conference this morning—there wasn’t a hope of getting away.”
Her voice was waspish. “It took me over half an hour to get a taxi. I was frozen to the bone when I got here.”
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