Ericson shook his head. “No. Nothing yet.”
Johansen’s rugged face was grim now. “The moment you hear anything, let me know at once. You know how important it’s supposed to be. Tell everyone to keep his ears open. Now, what about a hot drink? You look cold.”
Ericson shook his head “No; I must get back. The devils have put me on early shifts this week.”
“But you’ve plenty of time. Come on, man. Sit down and relax.”
“No, Olaf; I must go.”
Ericson was clearly nervous and Johansen made no further effort to detain him. He saw him out of the trees and watched his diminishing figure until it had vanished into the gloomy, snow-covered mountainside. Then he returned to his hide-out, and ten minutes later began tapping out his coded message to England.
On the surface nothing had changed. The mountains were as high, the darkness as unrevealing. Yet now the odds on the convoy reaching Stettin had appreciably dropped.
6
As Bergman had said, his sister did not take long in coming to Sutton Craddock once a room had been found for her. Bergman met her at the station and brought her to the Black Swan in a car Barrett had lent him.
They arrived just as Adams was stepping out of the front porch. With other members of the squadron that could be spared, Adams had been given a few hours’ rest that morning in preparation for the long hours of duty that lay ahead. He was on his way back to camp when the car turned in on the drive. Although the glass was dropping fast, it was a clear morning with a pale blue sky and a wintry sun.
Bergman threw open the door and jumped out, waving a cheerful hand at Adams. “Hello. Come and meet my sister. She would like to thank you for helping her get a room.”
At that moment a girl stepped out of the car, and Adams’ romanticism made him draw in a sharp breath.
Hilde Bergman could not be taken for anything else but Scandinavian. She was bare-headed, and wore her mass of thick, blonde hair brushed up and over her ears. On many women it would have been too severe a style, on her it only served to reveal the perfect bone structure of her face, the foundation of lasting beauty. She had lovely, regular features, very composed for one so young, was tall and gracefully built, and was wearing a camel-hair coat with a light blue scarf at her throat. She came forward smiling, and as Adams took her hand he saw her eyes were a fine-grained tecture of blue and grey. Looking into them was like gazing to the bottom of a sunlit Norwegian lake.
“I am very pleased to meet you, Squadron-Leader, and must thank you for helping Finn to get me this room.”
Adams had no sooner recovered his breath when he lost it again on hearing her voice. It had a mellow quality, it sang in his ears like a bronze bell, and her slight accent made it irresistible.
“I hope you like it here,” he managed.
“I know I shall. I am looking forward very much to meeting your wife, too. Finn has told me about you both.”
Adams began remembering things again. There was Valerie—yes, he ought to introduce them. He glanced at his watch, then nodded.
“Val’s in her room at the moment. Let me help you upstairs with your things, and I’ll introduce you to her. She’ll be able to show you around today.”
“You are certain you can spare the time?”
“Oh, yes. I’m a bit early; it’s all right.”
Valerie received the girl quite cordially, and without quite knowing why, Adams was relieved. In his gratitude it did not occur to him that Bergman’s presence might have had some influence on Valerie’s behaviour. In anyone other than his wife Adams was a good judge of character, but loyalty was inclined to bias his judgement of her. He stayed until Hilde and Bergman had returned to the girl’s room, then took his leave. In spite of the long and anxious hours awaiting him, he felt an odd lightness of heart as he made his way to the airfield.
Back in the inn Bergman helped his sister to unlock her suitcases. It was clear from both their expressions that they were delighted to be together again. They had always been deeply attached to one another, and their exile in England had strengthened that attachment. Now he was alone with her Bergman spoke in Norwegian.
“How do you like the inn?”
Her enthusiasm was spontaneous. “Oh, very much, Finn. It’s a charming old place.”
Bergman stared round at the heavy furniture and the old prints on the walls. “I hope it’s not going to be damp.”
“Oouf.. ..” She made a gesture of impatience. “You worry about me too much, Finn. It is nice and I am going to be very comfortable here.”
Bergman nodded and went to the window. He motioned her over. “Have you seen this?”
She followed his eyes and saw the airfield across the road with its hangars, Nissen huts, and beyond them the Bostons at their dispersal points.
“Just the place for an agent, isn’t it?” Bergman said humorously. “Perhaps it’s just as well you’ve taken it over.”
“Have any other rooms the same view?”
“Only one. The innkeeper’s bedroom—directly above you. But Security have checked on him: he’s all right. And both he and his barmaid have been warned to keep their mouths closed on anything they see.”
She watched his face closely as he was speaking. There was the faintest air of preoccupation about him —something she had noticed on first meeting him at the station. In one as trained in self-discipline as he, it usually meant only one thing.
“You’re not going off again just as I have arrived here, are you?” she asked quietly.
He stared at her, then laughed. “No; of course I’m not. Why do you ask?”
She made a little fluttering movement of her right hand, a characteristic gesture. “I do not know, but if you are not going it does not matter. . . .” She motioned towards the airfield. “But I do not understand. Why have they attached you to the Air Force and why are you in naval uniform? Can you tell me, or is it something I should not know?”
He told her as much as Davies had told the others. “That’s as far as I dare go at the moment,” he finished. “And even that much is very secret indeed.”
Her clear, steady eyes, the eyes Adams was still thinking about, were shining very brightly now. “But that is wonderful, Finn. It means you will be staying here—not going back. . . .”
He checked her quickly. “It means I shall be here for a few weeks. That is why I asked you to come.”
“Only a few weeks.. ..”
He saw her disappointment and squeezed her arm. “That’s longer than we’ve been together since 1940. Let’s count ourselves lucky and make the best of it, shall we?”
She made herself smile immediately. “Of course we will. We will have a wonderful time. Tell me about everyone here. Have you made any friends yet?”
“Yes; I think so. There’s Adams—I quite like him —and then there’s Roy Grenville. I haven’t told you, have I, that this is the famous 633 Squadron with Roy Grenville as Squadron Commander? You must have read about them in the newspapers.”
She nodded. “Yes; I have. You say you and he have become friends?”
Bergman gave a rueful laugh. “I like to think so, although it’s not easy to be certain with anyone as curt of nature as Grenville. He’s a strange chap in many ways.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.... He gives me the impression of being a very intelligent man who has dedicated himself to this war. In peacetime I could imagine him as an explorer or an engineer—you know, the type that builds a bridge where no bridge has been built before. He has that sort of aggressiveness that every man needs to be a man. But, of course, aggressiveness can be used either way, to create or to destroy. The Nazis trained their youngsters to use it destructively. To defeat them we have to use ours the same way. I feel that is what Grenville has done—deliberately made himself into as efficient a fighting machine as a man can be.”
“You make him sound soulless,” she said.
Bergman shook his head. “On the cont
rary, I keep getting the impression he bitterly resents what he has had to do, and so takes it out of the Germans all the more. But I may be hopelessly wrong about him; he may really like war for war’s sake. He’s a most difficult man to understand.”
“You seem to have tried hard enough,” she smiled.
“I’ve been seeing a good deal of him these last few days, that’s probably why. He has taken me up with him a few times.”
She gave a start. “You don’t mean on raids?” “Heavens, no. Just round and about. I asked him to.” “Haven’t you done enough flying?” she asked quietly.
Bergman shrugged. “I’ve never flown in Bostons before, and now I’m attached here I felt I ought to know something about them.”
There was a disturbed look in her eyes now. She watched him closely and noticed how his gaze kept wandering towards the distant planes.
They chatted for another ten minutes, then Bergman picked up his cap regretfully. “I’m afraid I shall have to be getting back now.”
“Will you come over tonight?”
His eyes wandered to the window again. He hesitated, then shook his head. “Things have worked out rather badly. I got some news through the other day that will keep us on duty tonight. It isn’t quite definite yet—I shall get another message through later—but in any case we shall all be standing by. But I’ll be over tomorrow at the first opportunity.”
“Why are you going with them on this raid?” she asked, keeping her voice steady.
Even Bergman’s training could not prevent his giving a slight start. “How did you know I was going?” Hilde smiled faintly. “It wasn’t difficult to guess— not after you told me you’d been up with Grenville. I should have known you wouldn’t be content to sit back here while they went into danger.” Her tone changed, became puzzled. “But why do they let you go? Your work is dangerous enough. Surely they do not need you once they have been given their target.” Bergman shifted uncomfortably. “There’s nothing dangerous about this, particularly as I shall be flying with Grenville. Don’t worry about it, please.”
Her recollection of some of Grenville’s exploits did nothing to allay her anxiety, but she knew the futility of argument.
“Promise me you will be careful,” was all she said.
He reached out and pinched her cheek affectionately. “I will. Have a good night’s sleep and don’t worry. I’ll be over tomorrow and will bring Grenville with me.
I’m hoping you’ll like him. Bye-bye now. Adjö da.” “Ad jo.Ta godt vare po deg selv.”
She went to the window and looked out. A few seconds later he appeared on the road below, a tall figure in his naval greatcoat. He looked back and waved. She watched him until the comer of the inn hid him from sight, then raised her eyes to the airfield. The wintry sun had already disappeared; a dark mass of clouds had rolled in from the east and turned the light bleak. The distant Bostons looked forbidding now, and the wind, edging through the window frame, sent a shiver through her.
* * *
Once more the Bostons went through their series of complicated tests. Mechanics fussed around them; D.I.’s were filled in and signed. Crews left their warm, smoky offices and took their planes up for yet another flight trial. The last Boston, D Danny, belonging to Jack Archer of B Flight, came in just as the winter dusk, sprinkled with drizzle, was settling over the field. Archer taxied her over to his dispersal point, cut her engines, and climbed stiffly out, followed by his observer and air gunner. After a brief word with his maintenance N.C.O., he left the ground crew to make their final checks.
A petrol bowser came waddling alongside to top up D Danny’s tanks. Armourers climbed into the nose and turret to arm the Browning guns with their long belts of ammunition. By 1650 the last instrument check had been made, the last panel screw pressed down and turned. Every hornet of 633 Squadron was now ready.
The air crews ate early that evening. Directly after dinner they were ordered to the Briefing Room where they were given their instructions. Bergman, in his rôle of naval officer, tried to give his contribution as nautical a flavour as possible. When the briefing was over the crews were ordered to stand by in the crew rooms for further orders.
The wait that followed was of that restless, stomachtightening order that frays nerves and jags tempers. Some men played cards, others talked volubly, yet oth- ers sat silent, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Bergman was with Adams, Grenville, and Barrett in the Operations Room. New to operational flying, the Norwegian was finding it difficult to control his nerves as he waited for the crucial message to come through.
At 2000 hours a message came but it was not the one he wanted. The outcome was an order that all crews could stand down but must remain with instant call.
As always when an operation was delayed, the reaction on the crews was unfortunate. Keyed-up nerves had to slacken of their own accord and sometimes would not. The more experienced men went to their quarters where some managed to sleep. Others stayed in the crew rooms, playing cards, smoking, watching the clock____
The hours dragged by to midnight, then into the cold winter morning. Incessant tension had now had its effect, and the squadron lay in an uneasy, exhausted sleep. At 0106 hours the Duty Sergeant was dreaming and turning restlessly over on his camp-bed. At that moment the bell of the teletype rang, bringing him awake with a start. He heard the clack-clack of the machine and the rustle of paper, and was on his feet and across the room in an instant.
633 Squadron swung into gear. The Duty Officer, making certain all outside communication was still cut, began making his ’phone calls. The Wing Commander, the Engineering Officer, the Station Armament Officer, the Navigation Officer . . . down the list he went, ticking each name in turn. Like a stone thrown into a pool, the initial alarm spread. Men awoke to the ringing of ’phones, cursed, and swung their feet to the ground. The chatter of voices grew. The Tannoy ^spluttered, barked, then blared forth triumphantly. “All air crews report to the Operations Room immediately. Repeat: All air crews report to the Operations Room immediately. ...” It was followed by the harsh hoot of a siren.
Crews felt that familiar dryness in their throats as they grabbed their flying kit. Lorries started up in the darkness, their engines barking in the bitter wind.
The strike was on.
The patter of rain could be heard on the blacked-out window of the private sitting-room. Occasionally a few drops found their way down the chimney, making the fire splutter. Valerie put aside her magazine and yawned.
“What a night! I think I’ll have a cigarette and turn in.”
Hilde, reading a book in the armchair opposite, looked up with a smile. Valerie offered her a cigarette, then took one herself, putting it into a long holder before lighting it. She was an affected smoker and made something of a ritual over the operation. Inhaling deeply, she sank back into the armchair.
“They must be on a pretty important show or the weather would have cancelled it. You’ve no idea what time they are taking off, have you?”
Hilde shook her head.
“I suppose we’ll just get off to sleep when they’ll start up,” Valerie said. Her voice turned curious. “Your brother won’t be going with them, will he? As he is a Norwegian and in the Navy, I thought they might have been put on a shipping strike off the Norwegian coast.”
Hilde gave a slight start on hearing Valerie’s surmise about Bergman. She was careful to avoid any reference to his movements in her reply.
“I don’t know what the raid is on, Mrs. Adams,” she said truthfully. “My brother did not give me any details.”
Valerie waved her cigarette-holder impatiently. “Don’t be so formal, for heaven’s sake. My name’s Valerie.” She had not missed the girl’s faint start and eyed her now with some malice. “Oh, I know they don’t like talking, but women usually find things out sooner or later. You needn’t worry about talking to me, you know. After all, I am the Station Intelligence Officer’s wife.”
Valerie learned later that Hil
de had the rare quality of frankness. She learned now that she was no idle gossip. The girl nodded her head but showed clearly she had no intention of discussing the subject any further. Valerie gave a brittle laugh and rose to her feet.
“Oh, well; if we don’t feel like being sociable, I think I’ll turn in. Good night.”
“Good night,” Hilde said quietly, and Valerie went out with a feeling of frustration.
The girl’s eyes were troubled as she turned back to the fire, and the time slipped by unnoticed. A tap on the door made her start.
She turned to see Kearns standing in the doorway. He peered around the room, then entered. “You alone tonight, Miss?”
“Mrs. Adams has been with me, but she went to bed fifteen minutes ago.”
“Your brother couldn’t get over?”
“No. Not tonight.”
Kearns motioned in the direction of the bar. “We haven’t had a single airman in tonight. Do you think there’s something on, Miss?”
She shook her head slowly. “They are not supposed to tell us, Mr. Kearns.”
“Aye; and I’ve no business asking, for that matter,” the innkeeper said quickly. “But I was in the last war myself and I can’t help havin’ an interest in the lads. They’re as fine a crowd as I’ve seen anywhere. I like the look of that brother of yours too, Miss, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so.”
She gave him a sudden, bright smile. “Thank you very much.”
Kearns, in his own way as impressed with her as Adams was, moved awkwardly back to the door. “I’m goin’ to make a cup of tea now—Maisie an’ me always has a cup after closing time. Will you have one, Miss?” “Thank you—if it is no trouble.”
“No trouble at all, Miss. How do you like it? D’you drink it the same way as us, with milk and sugar?”
“Not with sugar, thank you. But otherwise the same.”
“All right, Miss. I’ll bring it through in a few minutes. Just you wait here by the fire.”
He went back to the kitchen, to return five minutes later with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. He chatted a few minutes, then withdrew reluctantly to the door.
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