633 Squadron

by Frederick E Smith

  “I’m sorry, darling--” She gave a sudden, violent shudder. “I’m absolutely frozen. And this room’s like an ice-box.”

  Adams looked around guiltily, noticing for the first time there was no fireplace. “I’ll get you a paraffin heater,” he said hastily.

  “You’ll have to get me something, or I’ll never survive the winter.”

  “There is a private lounge downstairs you can use, you know. It has a fire.”

  “I’ve seen it. The landlord has shown me around.”

  There was a brief silence. Adams wandered dismally over to the rear window and stared out. It overlooked the garden and the field behind the inn.

  “I took a rear room because the one at the front overlooks the airfield, I thought this one would be quieter. I remember your saying at the last place how the planes kept you awake.”

  She inhaled deeply on her cigarette, making no comment. Adams’ eyes wandered round the room, taking in the old-fashioned marble-topped washstand, the ornate mahogany wardrobe and dressing-table, and the stiff-backed chairs. He looked back at his wife, Valerie. She had not moved, one slim leg was still crossed over the other, and her thin mouth was turned down at the comers. She was clearly in one of her moods.

  Adams could not hide his disappointment. “I thought you might like it here,” he muttered. “I know things are a bit old-fashioned, but they could be worse and-”

  She broke in with a sarcastic laugh. “Old-fashioned? Have you seen the kitchen? It has a stone floor, bare walls, an old-type gas-stove that explodes in your face, and a sink that’s fit for nothing but pig swill. And there are absolutely no facilities whatever for doing any washing.”

  Adams nodded heavily. “I know there are snags, but what could I do? Highgate is full of evacuees—it’s hopeless even to look for a room there. Things are pretty difficult everywhere these days.”

  He realized he had said the wrong thing as soon as the words came out. “Don’t tell me there’s a war on,” she snapped. “If you do, I’ll scream.”

  Adams recognized all the signs of a first-class quarrel. He looked hastily at his watch. “I’ll have to be getting back, I’m afraid. Barrett wants to see me again this afternoon.”

  Valerie showed a spark of interest. “Has it anything to do with your posting here?” When he nodded, she went on: “What’s behind this move? Has Barrett told you anything yet?”

  Adams looked uncomfortable and did not speak. She stared at him. “Well, what’s the matter?”

  “It’s very hush-hush,” Adams muttered, shifting uncomfortably.

  “What about that? You’ve told me things before. Why the secrecy now?”

  Adams moved despairingly towards the door. “Sorry, darling, but I can’t talk about it. In any case I don’t know very much----”

  “Things have gone pretty far when you can’t trust your own wife, haven’t they?”

  For all his meekness Adams had a temper. It began to show now, in spite of himself. “I’m not to blame for the Official Secrets Act, you know.”

  Valerie’s thin mouth curled. “There’s no need to shout. We don’t want everyone in the place to know we’re quarrelling.”

  Adams took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “The last thing I want to do is quarrel. It’s simply that I’m not allowed to breathe a word of this to anyone—it’s supposed to be too big.” He looked at his watch again. “I’ll have to go. I’ll be over this evening, all being well.” She rose. “What do you intend doing tonight? Are you going to bring a few of the boys over?”

  “Why, no; I hadn’t planned to,” he muttered. “I thought as it was our first evening we’d have it alone.” She came nearer and stood beside him. Once more he found himself uncomfortably reminded that she was the taller of the two. She put a hand on his arm, her tone changing.

  “I’d like a little company tonight, darling. It’ll do me good. Bring one or two of the boys over, please.”

  Adams remembered the projected shipping strike. “There’s a slight chance we may all be on duty tonight.” Then, seeing her expression, he went on hastily: “Only a slight one. I think it’ll be all right. Who would you like me to bring?”

  “Oh, Jack Richardson. And what about Roy...?” “Roy has no time for Richardson, you know. In any case I believe Richardson is Duty Officer tonight. I can ask Roy, but you know what it’s like getting him to parties.”

  Valerie pouted. “I’m certain he’ll come if you tell 32 him I’ve just arrived and feel like company. Try him, anyway. Now who else can you ask?”

  Her change of mood made a split in Adams’ mind, one half of it thanking God and becoming co-operative, the other half turning hurt and resentful. The co-operative half won.

  “We’ve had a Norwegian naval officer called Bergman attached to us. He told me over lunch he wants to find a room for his sister. Perhaps if he came over tonight, he could meet the landlord at the same time. He seems a nice chap and if he comes Roy may come too. I’ve got the idea Roy likes him.”

  “Splendid, dear. That’ll be lovely. You’re really very sweet.” She lifted a hand and touched his cheek. “I know I’ve been grumpy, but that long wait at the station was so upsetting. A little company tonight will put me right again.” With that she put up her face for him to kiss.

  Adams went downstairs with his emotions in a tangle. He ran into Kearns in the hall.

  “Everything all right, sir?”

  “Yes; everything’s fine,” Adams muttered, afraid the innkeeper’s shrewd eyes were reading too much on his face.

  “Don’t you worry, sir,” Kearns said unexpectedly. “We’ll do our best to make her comfortable.”

  Adams wondered afterwards why he did not deny the inference that he was worrying about anything, and realized it was because the ring of sympathy in the innkeeper’s voice had come at a moment of need. His only thought at the time was that he liked the elderly man and would like to buy him a drink.

  “I’m sure you will,” he said. At the door he turned back. “We must have a drink and a chat together one of these nights.”

  “Be glad to, sir,” Kearns said, looking pleased. “Very glad to indeed.”

  Adams went out in the biting wind again. His only other clear reflection came at the camp entrance when the sentry presented arms. Irrelevantly but quite intensely, he realized he had never felt less worthy of a salute.

  Probably because of the station order that prevented men going far afield, the public lounge was well-filled that night, and Valerie told Adams she preferred it to the quietness of the private sitting-room. Anyone without charity might have suspected that the number of unattached airmen sitting among the regular customers had some bearing on her choice. She was wearing a wine-coloured dress of light material with half-length sleeves, something totally inadequate for a winter evening, but the various admiring glances she received appeared to more than recompense her.

  They had been in the lounge about fifteen minutes when Grenville and Bergman arrived. Valerie brightened up immediately on seeing Grenville.

  “Hello, Roy. How nice to see you again.”

  Grenville’s face was expressionless as he took her hand. “Hello, Val. You’re looking well. This is Lieutenant Bergman, Mrs. Adams.”

  Valerie’s eyes had already appraised Bergman and her tone suggested approval. “Delighted, Lieutenant. Please sit down, both of you. We’re so glad you’ve come, aren’t we, Frank? We were both bored to death. I’m afraid it’s going to be very dull here.”

  “Don’t tell the lieutenant that,” Adams said, with a heavy laugh. “He’s hoping to get his sister here.”

  “So I understand,” Valerie said. “That’ll be lovely. Where is your sister now?”

  “In Scotland,” Bergman told her.

  Valerie lifted pencilled eyebrows. “Really! How nice for you. And you’re going to get her a room here?”

  “If I can, yes.”

  Valerie wondered what Bergman, a Norwegian naval officer, was doing at the airfield
. She was also curious to know how he came to have a sister in the country. If Grenville hadn’t been there she would have asked outright, but Grenville was tight on security matters, something she had learned to her cost. She decided to tackle Adams later, and contented herself with an indirect question.

  “Does she speak English as well as you, Lieutenant?” Bergman smiled. “Much better, I think.”

  “It’ll be lovely meeting her. When are you hoping to get her down?”

  “Once I find a room, she can come at once,” Bergman told her. At that moment he noticed Kearns talking to Maisie behind the bar. “Is that the innkeeper? Perhaps I could go over now and speak to him....”

  Valerie put a hand on his arm. “We’ll see everything is fixed up, don’t worry. Have a drink with us first, and then one of us will take you over to him.” She turned her eyes on Adams.

  Adams rose hastily. “Yes, that’s the idea. What will you all have?”

  As Adams approached the bar, Maisie was in the last stages of an argument with Kearns. The innkeeper had brought a few bottles in to the lounge which he wanted displaying on the high shelves behind the counter. Knowing whoever put them up would have to stand on a chair and stretch upwards, he wanted to do the job himself, but Maisie would have none of it.

  “I ain’t got sciatica like you,” she told him. As he still protested she went on: “Aw, let ’em look, if they want to. It ain’t going to lose us the war, is it?”

  Without further ado, she climbed on to a chair and motioned to him to pass the bottles up to her. As she reached upwards with the first one, displaying a generous length of leg, the blackout curtain was pulled aside and two Air Force warrant officers appeared. One saw Maisie and let out a howl.

  “Hey, Jimmy. Take a look at this. We’ve found somethin’ here, kid.”

  The hum of conversation stopped as every eye turned on the speaker. The airmen knew him well; the civilians were soon to have that pleasure. The first thing they noticed was a broad, craggy face, split open into an infectious grin, and topped by a mop of fair, unruly hair. It was Gillibrand of B Flight, one of Sam Milner’s crack pilots. Everything about Gillibrand was big— big hands, feet, generosity, craziness, and courage. He stood grinning at Maisie now, his unbuttoned overcoat swinging back and revealing the D.F.M. beneath his pilot’s brevet.

  His companion, Jimmie Willcox, provided a contrast in types. Willcox was a slim, dark-haired boy who could have not weighed more than nine stone, with a pale, sensitive face and wistful eyes and mouth. He looked no more than eighteen although he was actually twenty-two. At the moment he was blushing.

  “What a sight to greet a feller on a winter night,” Gillibrand said.

  Maisie turned, staring at him. “What’s the matter with you, you big gorilla? Ain’t you ever seen legs before?”

  “Not like yours, baby,” Gillibrand grinned, shouldering his way forward. “They’re really something.”

  “What’s the matter with all you Yanks? Don’t they let you see women until you’re twenty-one?”

  “I’m not a Yank. I’m a cousin of yours, baby. I’m a Canadian.”

  Maisie sniffed her disgust. “Don’t go calling yourself my cousin. I’ve got decent relations.”

  Gillibrand motioned to the bottles. “Go on, baby; don’t stop. That was a great act.”

  Maisie stepped down from the chair with dignity. “I’ll put the rest up when the wolves have gone,” she told Kearns.

  The hum of conversation returned at a higher level, the bewildered locals throwing glances over their shoulders at Gillibrand, who was now talking to his observer. Adams paid for his drinks, put them on a tray, and returned to his table.

  “What do you think of our mad Canadian?” he asked Bergman as he handed him his glass.

  The Norwegian was laughing. “He seems quite a character.”

  “He’s a character, all right,” Adams said, sitting down. “He’s completely crazy and a flying fool. If he sees a gun firing at him, he wants to fly down the barrel to get at the gunner’s throat. Roy here could tell you some yarns about him.”

  “Who is that with him?”

  “That’s his observer, Jimmie Willcox.”

  Back at the counter Gillibrand was nudging Jimmie 36 and pointing at Maisie, 'who was pretending to ingore him.

  “It’s always a good sign, kid, when they act toffeenosed. Means you’re all doing all right. Watch me.” He approached Maisie. “Hey cousin! How ’bout having a drink with your relation from across the sea, huh?”

  Maisie was very haughty. “I’m particular who I drink with,” she said, nose in the air.

  “What about my buddy here, then? He ain’t done nothing to you.”

  Maisie eyed the blushing Jimmie and softened. “He’s different. He’s a gentleman.”

  Gillibrand let out a howl of delight and pushed Jimmie forward. “Kid, you’re a success. Buy the girl a drink.”

  “Stop pushin’ him about,” Maisie snapped. “Can’t you see you’re embarrassin’ him.”

  Gillibrand looked at Jimmie, then slapped him on the back. “Just my way, son. No harm meant. Come on; let’s go over and sit with the natives. Nothing like a few hayseeds to liven things up.”

  He pulled his small companion across the room. As he saw Grenville, he flipped up a respectful hand. “Evenin’, skipper. Nice dive they’ve got here.”

  Grenville nodded. The startled locals scattered as the Canadian went among them. Within a minute he had them all gaping as he plunged into a hair-raising story of the war.

  Adams gave a laugh, the first relaxed sound he had made that evening. “What a character! Look at their faces! They can’t keep their eyes off him.”

  Someone at the counter could not, either. Maisie caught Kearns looking at her and flushed: a rare thing for Maisie.

  “Men who look at women like that shouldn’t be allowed in decent pubs,” she said. “It gives ’em a bad name.”

  Kearns smiled. “I don’t think there’s any harm in him, lass.”

  Maisie sniffed. “I wouldn’t trust myself alone with him—not for five minutes, I wouldn’t.”

  There was a twinkle in Kearns’ shrewd eyes. “I’ll bet you wouldn’t, lass.”

  Maisie glanced at him suspiciously, but his face was bland and innocent again.

  * * *

  Four hundred miles away, in the cold and darkness of the Northern winter, the convoy that was 633’s target lay at anchor off Innvik. Innvik, a port six miles up the Svartfjord north of Bergen, was an ideal wartime anchorage. It was guarded from the air by the long, precipitous mountains that flanked either side of the fjord, and protected from the sea by the rocky island of Utvik, a naval fortress lying four miles out from the coast. An additional protection was the winter darkness. From late November until February the sun did -not rise high enough to clear the mountain tops, so leaving the water below in permanent gloom.

  The convoy had been at Innvik for eight days. In that time it had discharged its cargo to a secret destination farther up the fjord, and replaced it by another. Except for one small hitch soon to be put right, all had gone well, and shortly the convoy would leave its haven and steal south down the long Norwegian coast, picking up other ships and an escort on the way. Its destination was Stettin in the Baltic, and in spite of the watchful British Navy and the probing planes of Coastal Command, the odds seemed greatly in favour of its reaching there safely. The long nights and the steep coastal mountains would offer it the protection they had given to so many ships before. And after delivering its valuable cargo of wood and metal ores in Stettin, it would return again to the Svartfjord with a cargo of-even greater significance.

  There seemed, then, every reason for enemy confidence and for the party which the Convoy Commander gave his officers before the serious business of briefing began. But he was not aware of what was taking place that very night only six miles away from his hotel.

  Five hundred feet above the Svartfjord’s dark and narrow mouth, a man was
making his way through the snow towards a thick clump of dwarf birch that grew under a rock face. Reaching it he paused a moment to make certain he was not observed. Nothing moved in the snow around him, and satisfied he pushed his way into the trees.

  “Olaf,” he called softly. “Olaf; where are you?”

  A deep voice at his elbow made him start with fear. “I’m here, Jan Ericson, checking up you aren’t a German.” A hearty laugh followed and Ericson felt his arm grasped. “Come on, Jan. Take your skis off and come inside.”

  Ericson was led through a thick camouflaged cover of conifer branches and foliage into a tent, in which both a paraffin lamp and a heater were burning. A camp-bed took up one side of the tent, a pile of provisions the other. Ericson knew that alongside this tent was another containing a battery-driven transmitter and receiver.

  The paraffin lamp showed Ericson to be a slight man with quick, nervous eyes. He was warmly dressed in a thick ski-suit, but his face appeared pale and cold. The wireless operator, Olaf Johansen, was a thick-set man in his early forties, with bushy eyebrows, a weather-beaten face, and a shock of untidy brown hair. He was wearing serge trousers and a leather windbreaker. As he entered the tent he threw a .38 revolver on the camp-bed.

  “I heard your skis and thought the devils might have started night search parties in the hope of spotting a light.”

  Ericson had a thin, breathless voice. “Be careful. They had a Storch up the other day trying to locate you.”

  Johansen grinned. “I know. And I decreased my signal strength as he flew nearer and sent him off in the other direction. Don’t worry about me—this rock face is a big protection, anyway. What about the convoy?”

  “Alvin managed to see me for a few minutes today. A railwayman tipped him off—apparently the last consignment of ore has been held up because of a landslide blocking the line. But they expect to get it through on Wednesday and will sail on Thursday.”

  The burly Johansen scratched his chin and grinned. “Thursday, eh! That’s good. That leaves us plenty of time. I’ll let Bergman know tonight. Anything else? Any news from farther up the fjord?”