“Whaddya think of that, Jimmie boy? That fixed ’em, huh?”
The youngster’s face was like a death mask. His teeth had bitten deeply into his lower lip and blood was trickling down his chin. He could feel the frantic pounding of his heart in his head, his hands and his feet. His stomach turned over, making him retch. He tried to reply, but only a whimper came from his lips. The intercom was kind to him, distorting the sound.
Gillibrand addressed his gunner as well as Jimmie. “The R/T was u.s.! Don’t forget it, you guys, or Grenville will take my hide off when we get back. Now what else is cookin’ round these parts... ?”
From A Apple, circling the perimeter of the action, it was like looking down into hell. Gillibrand’s T Tommy looked like a moth being pierced by a hundred white-hot needles as it attacked the flak ship, and its escape seemed a miracle. The flak ship exploded but the others were taking their toll. Another Boston of B Flight was hit when attacking a freighter. It went straight into the ship’s beam, flaming petrol sweeping right over the deck above.
Grenville was swearing slowly and viciously. He gave a curt order to his crew. Hoppy’s voice came back immediately. “O.K., skipper. I’m ready.”
In the dark turret, lit only by the flare of bursting shells and burning ships, Bergman’s voice failed him. His whole body was aching from nervous strain; and his underclothes were soaked with perspiration and clinging coldly to his body. He thought of the warning Grenville had given him earlier, and managed a rueful grin in the darkness. This certainly did take some getting used to....
Grenville’s voice came again, as sharp as a whip. “Are you ready, Finn? Do you understand what you have to do?”
Bergman managed it this time. “Yes, Roy; I understand. I’m ready.”
“All right. Hang on then.”
A Apple echelonned away and plunged down into the centre of the convoy.
8
The Bostons returned to Sutton Craddock just after noon. Hilde was up in her room when she heard them. She ran downstairs and out on to the gravel drive. Maisie and Kearns were already there, having come out from the bar.
The hum grew louder, a deep throbbing note like that given by an organ with the lower stops out. There was nothing to see yet, low thick clouds effectively blanketed the sky. But as the hum grew louder irregularities in it could be heard as if some of the engines were missing. Over on the airfield a siren was wailing and ambulance and truck engines were starting up.
The noise was deafening now, a heavy roar that beat down on their temples. The first Boston came out of the clouds like a wraith. As it banked carefully over the road, they saw daylight through a jagged hole in its wing. It slid slowly out of sight behind the wooden fence, its engines coughing and the wind whining over its airfoils.
Another damaged plane followed it. Shrapnel scars showed on its fuselage and tail unit. One engine was missing alarmingly and sending out a thin stream of black smoke. It lowered itself as gingerly as a cat down a sloping roof, and vanished in turn behind the fence.
One by one the rest came in. Kearns stole a glance at Hilde. Her face was very pale and her eyes enormous as they followed the planes down. For all her natural composure she looked very young and vulnerable at that moment.
At last the sky was empty of sound again. Maisie, who had not spoken a word during this time, turned to Hilde. Her voice had a high-pitched, brittle ring.
“How many went out—d’you know? I didn’t wake up until half of ’em had gone.”
“Twelve,” Hilde said.
Maisie’s voice was suddenly hushed. “Twelve! But only eight landed just now!”
Hilde nodded, then turned and went inside. Mai-sie stared at Kearns. “That doesn’t mean four have gone west, does it?”
Kearns shook his head heavily. “I don’t know, lass. We’ll have to wait and see.”
The telephone in the hall rang fifteen minutes later. Kearns answered it, turning to Hüde, who had appeared at the door of the sitting-room. His voice was relieved. “It’s for you, Miss. I think it’s your brother.”
With a murmur of thanks she took the receiver from him. She spoke in Norwegian, her voice low and a little unsteady. Kearns moved off to the door that led into the pubüc rooms. Maisie was standing there and he took her arm.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Give the girl a bit of privacy.”
“There’s something I want to ask her,” Maisie said. Ignoring his protests she drew closer to Hilde, hesitated, then reached out and touched her arm.
“Sorry to interrupt, Miss, but do me a favour, will you? Ask your brother if the big Canadian is all right....”
* * *
Bergman came over to the inn just after three o’clock that afternoon. To his relief he found Hilde alone in the sitting-room. She came over to him at once, gripping his arm tightly for a moment.
He put a hand on her hair and ruffled it affectionately. “Hallo, kjaere. How is my favourite girl-friend today?”
She pressed his arm. “Very pleased to see you. So pleased she’ll forgive you for neglecting her for so long.”
He saw how pale she was and offered her a cigarette. She accepted the light, inhaled deeply, then turned to him. “What was it like?” she asked quietly. “Can you tell me or is it a secret?”
Bergman shook his head. “No. As far as I’m concerned it isn’t a secret any longer. The Censor will pass on the news to the papers just as if it had been a normal raid. To keep it hushed up would make things suspicious. It was an attack on a convoy off the Norwegian coast—what the Air Force call a shipping strike.” Valerie’s guess had been remarkably accurate, Hilde thought. She led Bergman over to one of the armchairs. “Sit down and tell me all about it.”
Her eyes never left his face as he gave her brief details of Üie strike. He was sitting near the window and the bleak daylight showed up all his weariness. He .finished his short account on a humorous note, telling her about Gillibrand.
“There was a tremendous row when they landed. Grenville was going to have him arrested but he swore his wireless had been faulty and he hadn’t picked up Grenville’s orders. His wireless mechanic bore him out. Just the same, I thought Grenville was going to arrest them both.”
“But why?”
Bergman laughed. “Apparently this has happened before. Gillibrand talks his mechanic into putting in an unserviceable report. It’s a risky game, with Grenville the Squadron Commander.”
For a moment the tension within Hilde eased. She laughed with him. “I shall have to meet Gillibrand.” “You’ll find it difficult to miss him. He’s a tremendous character.”
“And what was it like flying with Grenville?” she asked. “So far you’ve made it sound as if all your plane did was fly about and let the others do the fighting.”
Bergman’s weary face became animated. “Grenville was magnificent. I can’t think of anyone else who would have got his squadron through in such weather. And do you know what he did when he saw what the flak ships were doing to his planes?”
She shook her head, watching the enthusiasm glowing in his eyes.
“He ordered his planes to keep away, then kept flying near them himself to draw off their fire. And he kept it up until all his aircraft had dropped their bombs. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
Hilde sat motionless a moment, then said quietly: “Don’t fly with him again, Finn. If you must go out with them, go with someone else. Please.”
Bergman read her thoughts and shook his head. “He’s not reckless, Hilde. He did that to save lives, not to risk them.”
“Your life was risked,” she reminded him.
Bergman shrugged impatiently. “That wasn’t his fault.”
She gave a quick, hopeless shake of her head. A burning coal fell on to the hearth. She picked it up with the tongs and threw it back into the fire.
“You lost four planes, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Two. One lost contact with us and returned earlier, and anothe
r was pretty badly shot-up but got back to Sumburgh. We left it there to get repairs.”
“How many men is that?”
Bergman moved restlessly. “Don’t start getting morbid, please.”
“Please tell me,” she asked quietly.
He threw his cigarette into the fire, lit a fresh one. “Six. And two gunners wounded and in hospital.”
She realized he was feeling the loss and changed the subject at once. “Will you be coming over tonight? And are you bringing Grenville with you?”
“I would have liked to do so but he has a great deal of work to do. And then there is this party afterwards. ...”
Her eyes widened. “Party! What party?”
“They are having one in the Mess,” Bergman explained. “It’s a custom of Grenville’s after a successful raid.”
She showed her bewilderment. “But six of his men died today. Why does he want a party?”
Bergman shrugged. “They can’t afford to brood over those that have gone—they’d go crazy if they did. Grenville knows what he is doing.”
Hilde did not argue with him. “Will you be going to this party too?” she asked, her voice low.
He nodded. “I said I’d go over about eight. I must go, out of respect to Grenville if for nothing else. I’m sorry, particularly as I couldn’t get over last night. But after this I should have a few free nights.”
She had risen and was staring down into the fire. Bergman rose, putting a hand on her shoulder. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You seem very quiet. What’s worrying you?”
She turned to him, her eyes uncertain. “I don’t quite know. I think--” Her hand fluttered in the gesture he knew so well. “I think it is this friend of yours, Grenville. I believe I am a little afraid of him...
* * *
The naked bulb hanging from the ceiling gave off a harsh light that made Grenville’s eyes ache. He was sitting at his desk reading a letter. He had almost finished it when he let out an exclamation and ripped it to pieces. Dropping his face into his hands he sat motionless for a moment, fingers pressed tightly into the thick dark hair over his temples. Then he picked up his pen and began writing again.
The letter took him over fifteen minutes to complete. He read it through again, shook his head, but this time folded it into an envelope which he put with five others that lay on his desk. Then he slumped back in his chair and lit a cigarette.
Thank God that was over. How he loathed the job, writing the same old platitudes, how they had died doing their duty, their courage in the face of enemy fire, and the rest of the bilge. What wife found any comfort in it when her children started asking where their father was? What mother gave a damn about courage as long as her son was alive and healthy? And that cant about them being remembered—that was a laugh. Who outside their own families was going to remember them after the war? Not a soul. No one liked being reminded of his debts, but there was one advantage in having them to the dead—you could forget ’em....
Disjointed memories came to Grenville. The visiting journalist last year . . . puffed-up little man . . . announcing pretentiously that at least the bereaved would have the pride of knowing their boys had died under a famous command ... his look of amazement when
Grenville had hit him . . . the fuss until Group had managed to hush it up. Pride! They’d damn him to hell for getting their boys killed, and who could blame them?
He swore viciously, jumping to his feet. It wasn’t his fault, was it, if mothers had sons, and if men were damn fools enough to marry and have wives and children who could miss them....?
Sweat trickled down his face, burning into the sores left by his face mask. He wiped a hand across his forehead, lowered it, and saw the sweat glistening on his fingers. He swore again, then glanced round the office in sudden alarm. Thank heaven he was alone.
The thought of others seeing him in this condition pulled him together. He was tired, that was all it was. He had ordered his crews to bed on their return: he should have gone himself. But he’d had to get in touch with Sumburgh about the wounded, Davies had wanted to talk with him, Adams had wanted to know how many damned rivets there’d been in the ships they’d sunk, these letters had had to be written—how the hell could a man sleep?
And now there was this party. He glanced down at his watch. Eight-thirty—it would be well on its way now. A party—on top of this! A couple of drinks and he’d want to puke his guts out. But it was his idea, wasn’t it? The tough Grenville touch....
He wondered where Bergman was. Probably still with his sister—he had said he might be a little late for the party. Quite a man, that Norwegian. He didn’t like sitting back while others went into danger, although if all Davies said was true, he’d earned himself a rest. He must have been scared to death when they went in —that low-level stuff was hell for anyone green. But he’d taken it well, particularly at the end when they’d pin-pricked the flak ships. Not that he’d have hit anything with those guns of his except wave-tops, but he’d given it a bang. No one could do more than that.
Grenville wondered about his sister. She must know what his game was—it must be nerve-racking for her when he was over on the other side. He wondered what she was like. If she had half Bergman’s comage, she’d be quite a girl. He looked at his watch again— there was still time to run over and meet her, Bergman would appreciate it, he knew that. They could have a quick drink, then he and Bergman could go to the Mess together....
As always when he had made a decision Grenville acted promptly. He threw on his greatcoat, picked up the six letters, and gave them to the aircraftsman on duty in the Orderly Room. Then he made his way towards the camp entrance.
A bleak drizzle was blowing in from the east, and it was as black as the inside of a hat. He swore as his feet squelched in a patch of glutinous mud. As he passed the Mess he heard the muffled sounds of laughter and singing. The party was getting under way—in another two hours it would be a free-for-all as the boys worked off their tension. He walked quickly, trying to lose the ache in his back and legs. The guard at the gate recognized him and snapped to attention. He saluted back and turned right down the road outside. It was quiet here and he could hear the moisture dripping off the trees and soaking into the wet earth.
His eyes were accustomed to the darkness now and he saw the black silhouette of the inn looming up ahead of him. He had his hand on the door of the lounge when he paused. Why the devil had he chosen this of all nights to come over? He was in a filthy mood and couldn’t be sociable if he tried! He took his hand off the latch, then swore again. Never turn back if you can help it, there’s no easier habit to acquire . . . ! Get inside, say hello to her, then take Bergman over to the Mess! The party was the right idea after all—a few drinks would take away this tension and soften the edge on things. . . . Without giving himself time for further hesitation, Grenville pushed open the door and entered.
9
Maisie was washing glasses behind the lounge bar when she heard the crash of metal. The half-dozen locals, yawning over their beers, jerked awake at the noise and followed her as she ducked under the counter and ran outside.
A small car was lurched up against the wall of the inn. Two figures were silhouetted against its lights, one huge, the other small. A rich Canadian voice sounded as Maisie approached the car.
“Aw; we’Ŭ leave it there, kid. The steering’s gone for a burton. I’ll get Chiefy to have a look at it tomorrow.”
“Hey, what’s going on?” Maisie asked indignantly. “You can’t come busting up your car on our drive.” Gillibrand swung round. A grin split his face from ear to ear. “Waal, waal! If it ain’t my little dream girl. Hiya, honey! How’re those big black eyes tonight? Shining bright for your cousin, huh?”
He slid his arm round her waist. Maisie backed hurriedly away. “Don’t you touch me. You’re drunk.” Gillibrand grinned again. “Kid; you do yourself an injustice. I ain’t gotta be drunk to make a pass at you. C’mon, Jimmie boy. Let’s sink a couple
here before joinin’ the party, huh?”
The locals scattered as the burly Canadian entered the lounge, his arm around his small companion. They approached the bar behind which Maisie had taken refuge. She eyed Gillibrand cautiously.
“Now take it easy, see. We don’t want no trouble here. This is a respectable place.”
Gillibrand draped himself over a stool, winking at his observer. “What are you talkin’ about, kid? Jimmie an’ me have come to say hello and to have a little chat. Now what’s wrong with that?”
“Just keep it that way, that’s all,” Maisie sniffed. “And don’t try to be fresh again.”
Gillibrand’s elbows shifted farther across the counter. “Say, you look real pretty when you’re mad.” He turned to Jimmie. “Don’t she, kid?”
The boy nodded, trying hard to smile. A lock of hair was hanging dismally over his eyes and his face had an unhealthy pallor. He looked as if he had had too much to drink and now wanted to be sick.
“Give us two beers, will you, honey?” Gillibrand said, “and be matey and have a drink yourself.”
Maisie poured them two pints, then, after some hesitation, gave herself a small gin. Gillibrand winked at her. “This is more like it, honey. This is nice.” He turned again to Jimmie. “Bit different from this morning, ain’t it, kid?”
The boy’s lips moved in a caricature of a smile. “A bit, yes.” He had a thin, shy voice.
Gillibrand grinned. “You never thought we’d make it when we went for that flak ship, did you?”
Jimmie gave a cracked laugh. “I didn’t. I thought we’d bought it.”
The Canadian laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Aw; you leave it to your Uncle Gillie—he’ll always get you through. We showed ’em, and we’ll show ’em again the next time they take a poke at us.”
Maisie was all curiosity now. “What happened this morning? Can you tell me somethin’ about it?”
Gillibrand winked. “Waal, maybe a bit here and there—if you keep your mouth shut afterwards.”
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