The glass with which Maisie had been toying suddenly slipped from her hand and broke into fragments at her feet. She looked down, then swept the pieces under the counter. When she lifted her black eyes to Gilli-brand’s flushed face again, there was still a residue of bitterness left in them.
“Did y’ hear what I said, kid?” Gillibrand went on, with all the persistence of the half-drunk.
Her full lips twisted. “I heard you. A straight road, you said.”
“That’s it. That’s the way it’s goin’ to be from now on. Just you and me, honey....”
At that moment Joe Kearns came through from the bar. Unlike the lounge, the bar was having a quiet night; and the innkeeper kept relieving Maisie so that she could take orders from the tables, a privilege Kearns liked to extend to his customers whenever possible. Maisie caught his eye and turned back to Gillibrand.
“I’m going round for orders now. You’d better get back to camp and get your head down. You’ve had too much already.”
Gillibrand watched her morosely as she went round the counter into the lounge. She took orders from the more distant tables first and returned to them with a loaded tray. On her way she passed a table occupied by Valerie Adams. Valerie was having another of her intimate parties. Apart from Adams himself, there were two other officers present, one being the stocky, ginger-headed Equipment Officer, Jack Richardson. Adams did not care for Richardson, but Valerie expressed a liking for his somewhat carnal sense of humour. The knowledge he found her attractive might have been the real influence behind her taste. As things were Richardson had been drinking heavily, his hot eyes had been roving without opposition over Valerie, and he was in a self-assertive, pugnacious mood.
Seeing Maisie go by, he shouted at her to take an order. She waved a hand good-naturedly.
“ ’Arf a mo’, dear. One thing at a time. Won’t be a minute!”
Valerie let out an exclamation of disgust. “That girl! I’ve had nothing else but trouble with her ever since I’ve been here. She’s impossibly common and cheeky.”
Adams shifted, then gave a conciliatory laugh. “She’s all right, Val. She’s just a bit high-spirited, that’s all.”
Valerie’s small, hard eyes turned on him with instant hostility. “Sorry. I’d forgotten you like that type.”
On her way back to them, Maisie was halted by two countrymen at an adjacent table. Richardson followed Valerie’s eyes and scowled. He leaned sidewards and tapped Maisie’s arm.
“What about that order? How long do people have to wait in this place?”
Màisie turned. She saw Valerie’s disagreeable eyes fixed on her, guessed the cause of Richardson’s impatience, and lost her temper. “What’s the matter with you?” she snapped. “I told you I was cornin’ over. You ain’t Hitler, are you?”
Richardson’s hand closed tightly around Maisie’s arm. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to... ?”
A second later an arm like a descending pile-driver squashed him down in his chair. His bulging eyes stared upwards, to see Gillibrand’s enraged face inches from his own.
“Touch that kid again, you earth-bound punk, and I’ll ram your face through the table.” Gillibrand meant every word of it.
Richardson lay paralysed in his chair for a few seconds, then tried to rise. Maisie pulled frantically at the big Canadian, who moved back reluctantly, his inflamed eyes still staring down.
“What d’you wanna do? Make somethin’ of it?” he snarled.
Remembering Valerie’s presence, Richardson halfrose from his chair, but pride succumbed to prudence at the look of unholy joy on the Canadian’s face. He sat down again, trying to retrieve some dignity from the situation.
“I’m not brawling in here with you, Gillibrand. I’ll have you arrested in a minute.”
Gillibrand thrust a jaw like the prow of an ice-breaker into his face again. “Go ahead and do it, punk. See what happens. I’ll bust you all over the airfield, just as I’ll bust anyone else who touches this kid,” and his eyes roved belligerently over the rest of the party.
The only one not intimidated was Valerie. She gave a sneering laugh. “What are you trying to do? Make a good girl out of her?”
“She is a good girl,” Gillibrand scowled.
Valerie laughed. “You needn’t worry about anyone here touching her. If you’re afraid of that, you want to go a little nearer home.”
Maisie’s face suddenly went chalk-white. Valerie noticed her change of expression and nodded mockingly. “Yes, dear; I blow all about it. My room’s right under yours, you know. It’s surprising how much one can hear.”
Gillibrand’s fuddled eyes were moving from one to the other of the women. “What’re you gettin’ at?” he growled. “What’s been happenin’?”
Valerie turned on him triumphantly. “You should ask that little observer of yours. He’ll be able to give you all the details.”
“What are y’ talkin’ about?” Gillibrand snarled. “What’s Jimmie got to do with it?”
Valerie pointed at Maisie. “Ask her. It didn’t take her long to find consolation when you were on leave. I suppose your friend was the first man that came along.” Gillibrand’s eyes blazed. He swung round on Maisie. “You... and the kid? It’s a lie.... Ain’t it?”
Maisie’s expression told him the truth. For a moment it seemed he would strike her. Then he turned away, his face murderous. He flung the black-out curtain aside and lurched out into he darkness.
Adams, his face white and ashamed, rose without a word and left the lounge. Maisie ran after the Canadian. She caught up with him on the drive and grabbed his arm.
“It wasn’t the kid’s fault—honest to God it wasn’t. It was me. I thought it would help him—I thought it would help you both....”
He heard nothing but her confession, and threw her away from him savagely. She struck the wall of the inn, almost collapsing from the shock. He stood before her, a denser shadow in the darkness, his breathing hoarse and uneven. “Joyce . . . and you! And now the kid! What’s happenin’ to everybody? What’s goin’ on?” Despair and terror made her plead with him. “It wasn’t Jimmie’s fault. . . . Don’t take it out of him. D’yõu hear? The kid wasn’t to blame.”
Gillibrand turned and lurched away down the drive, his feet crunching pitilessly on the gravel. Her hands reached out mutely after him, then dropped to her sides. The bricks of the wall were cold and rough. She put her cheek against them and sobbed.
* * *
Grenville opened the door of the Mess and paused there a moment. There was a good deal of noise going on—Parsons of B Flight had got news through that day that he was the father of a 91b. son and was throwing a party to wet the baby’s ears. As Grenville turned to close the door there was a smash of glass, a howl, then a roar of laughter.
The piano was the centre of the party’s activities at 132 the moment. As Grenville went forward, Parsons, a slim, fairheaded youngster of twenty-two with a wispy, insecure-looking moustache, was leaning unsteadily against it, giving a doleful rendering of “Nellie Dean” to the accompaniment of cheers, catcalls, and boos. Catching sight of Grenville, he broke off and straightened himself with difficulty.
“Evenin’, sir. Nice of you to come—ver’ nice indeed. What’ll you have to drink, sir?”
The noise around subsided as Grenville shook his hand. “Nice work, Parsons. Congratulations. Let’s hope the little chap doesn’t turn out as big a toper as his pa, though. I’ll have a whisky, thanks.”
The songs began again but with less abandon now.-In an effort to ease the slight tension Grenville joined in, but soon fell silent. It was not the first time he had felt this curious sense of apartness—in spite of his efforts to suppress it, he had been feeling it more and more frequently over the last twelve months. It was this damned reputation the newspapers had given him: it affected the new youngsters, put them in awe of him. And, in turn, their attitude embarrassed him, made him curt, and so the thing got worse....
&nb
sp; Even among the old sweats there was that slight feeling. It wasn’t too bad with them, of course, but it all added up and he didn’t want it to add up. This was the life he had put everything into: he didn’t want to become a creature apart in it.
But there was no escaping the fact that the party had become more self-conscious since his arrival. He had one more drink, then made his excuses. It seemed to him the young uproarious voices took on an immediate tone of relief as he passed into the corridor outside, and the impression made him feel old.
He stood over the telephone a full fifteen seconds before picking it up. He was very conscious of the note of self-defence in his voice when he spoke to her.
“I thought I might come over for a few minutes if you weren’t doing anything. But, of course, if you have any friends there...
Her low voice was full of understanding. “I have no 133 friends here, Roy. And the sitting-room is empty tonight—Valerie and her husband are in the lounge. Please come—as soon as you wish.”
The outline of the Mess merged into the darkness behind Grenville. His mind flashed back to his first meeting with her, acutely aware of the reversal in the order of things. He allowed the irony, but the significance he refused to consider. To escape his thoughts he walked quickly towards the Black Swan.
16
Barrett frowned and gnawed at one end of his tobacco-stained moustache. He stared down again at the operation order on his desk. Priority top secret stop... convoy anchored off Invik .. . believed to contain one Elbing class destroyer . . . unknown number of flak ships ... one Mosquito to be provided immediately for photo reconnaissance. . . .
Another similar job to the one Grenville and Bergman had carried out, he reflected. The convoy must have something to do with this building—probably bringing equipment to it.... Shouldn’t be too difficult a job, but there was no mistaking the urgency and tone of the order. He had to send his best available men. . . . Well, neither Grenville nor Bergman was here this time. Bergman was already over on the other side and Grenville had gone with Davies to the conference. In any case, Roy was withdrawn from operations until further orders.... Who to send, then? Milner came to his mind at once and he was stretching his hand out to his telephone when he remembered. Milner’s young English .wife had been taken ill—the American had been given two days’ compassionate leave to see her. So he was out....
Another name automatically stepped into his mind. Wonderful pilot if it wasn’t for that confounded temperament of his. . . . And yet there didn’t seem much that could go wrong on this job. The met. report enclosed with the order was excellent, and in a Mossy it should be a piece of cake. Straight out, photographs, and straight back ... they shouldn’t even see an enemy kite. On the other hand, if there was trouble, he was the man to fight himself out of it.... '
The last thought decided Barrett. He put a call through to B Flight office. “Send me Warrant Officer Gillibrand right away,” he grunted. “And tell his observer, Willcox, to come along with him.”
The mouth of the Svartfjord fell behind the highflying Mosquito. Below it, the dark clusters of flak that disfigured the blue sky like some virulent pox drifted slowly away, sullen in defeat. The coastline, as jagged in outline as a shrapnel-tom wing, passed obliquely below the nose of the aircraft, giving way to the vast, congealed sea.
The operation had been a complete success and all the required photographs had been taken. The convoy had showed no hesitation in firing at the Mosquito—it would have looked suspicious if it had not—but most of the flak had burst below them and no fighter had made their altitude. Gillibrand, looking huge and menacing in his flying-suit and oxygen-mask, turned his eyes on the small, hunched figure of Jimmie alongside him and scowled. It had all been too damned easy....
Freed from the necessity of concentrating, his mind began brooding again on what he had heard the previous night. It had been lucky for the kid that the booze had got him and that he’d passed out before the kid had got back to camp.. .. Maisie said it was her fault, and maybe most of it was, at that. . . . They were all the same—he was leamin’ that fast enough. But hell, this kid had a mind of his own, hadn’t he? He didn’t have to do a lousy thing like that!
His thoughts goaded him and his hands tightened on the controls. He wasn’t going to get away with it this easy! So the little punk thought he was a man, huh? All right, little tough guy. Let’s take a look an’ see just how tough you are....
The Mosquito dipped its port wing with sudden purpose and veered round. The coastline, now far behind them, tilted until it was running parallel to their line of flight. The swinging compass steadied itself.
Gillibrand caught Jimmie’s sidelong, startled glance. His lips drew back.
“You don’t have to tell me we’ve gone off course, kid. You know what I’m going to do?”
The boy’s eyes held a vague expression of alarm as he shook his head.
“I’m gonna pay you back, kid. I’m gonna see just 136 how tough you’ve become all of a sudden. We’re gonna have some fun, you an’ me.”
Jimmie’s voice was faint in the intercom. “Our orders said we had to return straight back with the photographs. They’re supposed to be important.”
Gillibrand laughed harshly. “‘Gettin’ yellow already, kid? The only one givin’ orders up here is me. Just wait, kid. Wait until I’ve finished with you. You won’t be so tough then....”
The fury into which the Canadian had worked himself made no concession to caution or duty. He’d break this little punk if he had to fly the Mossy through the side of a battleship to do it. High in the infinite sky, the Mosquito droned southwards down the coast, a lone, angry wasp looking for trouble.
* * *
There was a hush in the room as the Brigadier stopped speaking and the caw of a nesting rook in the elms outside could be heard clearly. For a few seconds even Grenville’s self-control could not prevent his looking shocked.
“You’ll understand now the importance of all we’ve been doing,” the Brigadier said quietly, offering both Davies and Grenville a cigarette. “That building must be destroyed—we can’t even contemplate failure. Knowing its importance puts a heavy responsibility on you, Grenville, I realize that, but I felt you should be told. I’d like to take the opportunity to say we have the fullest confidence in you. Are there any questions you would like to ask?”
Grenville nodded. “When are you planning to send us in?”
“I’m not allowed to give you the exact date, but if everything goes well on the other side it will be less than a month. It has to be because-•”
The Brigadier broke off abruptly. Grenville followed his eyes and saw that a red bulb over the door was flickering urgently.
The Brigadier rose to his feet. “That means a message has been sent through. Please excuse me while I see what it is.”
He came back two minutes later looking a different man. His face was quite grey and his mouth and cheeks pinched with shock. But Grenville and Davies rose to their feet in alarm. The Brigadier motioned to the Air Commodore.
“Davies; will you come with me, please. I have some serious news for you.”
Davies flung an anxious look at Grenville and followed the Brigadier from the room. On their return Davies looked as white as the elderly soldier. He addressed Grenville at once, his voice urgent.
“When do your kites get back from Scotland?”
Grenville glanced at his watch. “They should have been down eighty minutes ago.”
“Tell me—didn’t you once train your men to do skip bombing—you know, precision stuff with time delays.”
Puzzled, Grenville nodded. “Yes. We were given that Groningen prison job three months ago. Of course, we haven’t done any in these new planes...”
“That’s good enough,” Davies interrupted curtly. He nodded to the Brigadier and picked up the telephone. Ten seconds later he had Barrett on the line.
“Barrett! Davies here. I want your Mossies re-fuelled and armed in less
than an hour. Yes, you can. Make ’em work like hell. The bombs are to be 500-lb. M.C.’s with eleven-second delays. Got it? Right. Get your crews alerted. We’ll be over as fast as we can and will give you the rest of the gen later. Now put me over to Adams, will you?”
After giving instructions to Adams on the maps and photographs needed for the briefing, Davies slammed down the receiver and turned to Grenville.
“That order grounding you is off. You’ll have to lead 'em in. The job is to prang a certain wooden building in Bergen. Don’t ask me why because no one is going to be told. There isn’t any time to lay an escort on— as you heard, it’s a rush job and there isn’t a minute to lose. But if you go in at low level, surprise and speed should get you through. And if the worst comes to the worst, you’ve got armament on those Mossies of yours to fight back, thank God.”
At that moment a lieutenant entered the office, giving the Brigadier a dispatch-box. The Brigadier turned to Davies. “These photographs will help your briefing. We’d better get along now. The car’s waiting outside.” “You’re coming along too, are you, sir?”
“I must. Hurry, please.”
Less than half-an-hour later the station wagon screeched to a halt at the gates of Sutton Craddock. The sentry on duty had barely time to glance inside before it jerked away, to sit up against its brakes outside the Station Headquarters. The Brigadier, stern and pale, was already striding down the path when Davies gave Grenville his dismissal. His voice was half peremptory, half apologetic.
“We’ll ring your office the moment we want you. In the meantime you’d better be getting yourself togged up.”
With that, Davies turned and ran after the Brigadier. Together they entered Barrett’s office. Davies closed the door, quickly introduced the two men, then came to the point without preamble.
“Have you got everything moving?”
Barrett nodded. “Apart from the briefing we should be ready for take-off in under an hour.”
Davies knew the magnitude of the task and nodded his appreciation. “We’ll have to make the briefing as short as possible. I’m afraid we have some unpleasant news, and a filthy job for you. The Brigadier wall give you the details.”
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