After the roar of the Merlins, the silence had a muffled, heavy quality through which the distant wail of the ambulance sounded thin and unreal. Gillibrand unbuckled Jimmie’s straps and caught his slumping body in his arms.
“We’ve made it, kid. We’re home. You’ll be O.K now.”
The blood on the boy’s face was like a smear of red ink across a sheet of parchment. He did not move or speak.
Gillibrand’s voice rose hysterically. “Kid, say somethin’ to me. D’you hear? Say something, kid.”
Jimmie’s eyes opened wearily. He stared upwards at Gillibrand, looldng puzzled. Then his crusted lips moved, trying smile. Gillibrand lowered his head to listen.
The sounds were as faint as the flutter of a moth’s wing. “It’s all right, Gillie. Don’t worry....”
“Don’t worry. . . . Listen, kid. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did it. There ain’t a skirt in the world worth your little finger. . . . You can have ’em all, kid —honest to God. Only don’t die....”
Jimmie’s head sagged back. Gillibrand glared down, willing him to live. “Don’t die, kid. For God’s sake don’t die!”
The boy’s lips moved again. “It’s funny Gillie. . . . I’m not a bit afraid. Tell her, will you? Tell her I’m not afraid....”
The wonder of it was still in his eyes when he died.
* * *
Adams saw him lurching down the tarmac, throwing off helpers as a wounded bear shakes off dogs. His helmet was pulled back exposing his yellow hair which was matted with sweat. There was a streak of oil down his face and a red stain down the front of his flying suit. But it was his eyes that drew Adams’ gaze. They were glaring straight ahead with the look of a man who had been given a glimpse into hell and knew for the rest of his life he would be haunted by the memory.
Adams approached him. “What happened, Gillibrand?”
The glaring blue eyes never shifted their stare as the Canadian lurched on. Adams took a deep breath and caught hold of his arm.
“Gillibrand! What happened?”
The Canadian swung round, his face murderous. In spite of himself Adams drew back, expecting a blow. Two long seconds passed, then Gillibrand jerked his arm savagely away and lurched down the tarmac.
It was only contempt for himself that drove Adams on. He caught hold of the Canadian’s arm again and forced a ring of authority into his voice.
“I want a report on what happened straight away. Not later—now, in my office. Come on!”
Discipline succeeded where sympathy had failed. Gillibrand turned to face him, his wild eyes puzzled now.
Adams gave him no time to recover. “Come on. This is important.”
Feeling as if he had a savage animal on a leash, Adams led Gillibrand into his office and closed the door. He motioned the pilot into a chair alongside his desk, put a ’phone call through to the Naafi for tea, then took a seat himself. He threw a cigarette across the desk, then pulled out a large official questionnaire. He kept his voice authoritative and impersonal.
“The first thing is—did you get the photographs?” The Canadian looked dazed now. He nodded like an automaton. “Yeah. We got ’em.”
Adams filled in the standard details on the form, then looked up. “See anything unusual on the way out?” “Nothin’ but sea and sky.”
“Apart from the convoy, was there any other activity in the fjord?”
“Didn’t see any.”
“Any opposition from it?”
“The usual flak from the ships. Nothin’ else.”
As Adams made notes on the form, the Canadian’s dazed eyes wandered round the office. “Where’s the skipper?” he muttered.
The question was understandable. In his rôle of Squadron Commander Grenville was usually present at interrogations. Adams explained briefly.
“While you were out, we were given an emergency job—a raid on a building in Bergen. They’re due back any time now—they didn’t leave long after you.” Adams paused, looking at his watch. “All right. You took the photographs and got out. You were due back around about 1545. It’s now 1640. What happened in that extra time?”
Gillibrand did not appear to hear the question. His square, oil-streaked face reminded Adams of a bemused schoolboy confronted with a simple yet baffling problem.
“Did you say Bergen?” the Canadian muttered.
Adams nodded. “They went out at low-level. Why? What’s worrying you?”
Whatever had sparked the question in the Canadian’s brain clearly eluded him now. His eyes turned dull and he shook his head mechanically. “Don’t know. Nothin’, I suppose.”
It was not the first time Adams had interrogated men in the last stages of physical and nervous exhaustion, and he knew the symptoms well. He was relieved when the Naafi girl brought in tea and sandwiches. He shoved them in front of Gillibrand.
Gillibrand sipped at the hot sweet tea but pushed the sandwiches aside. The smell of his flying-suit came to Adams’ nostrils, a mixture of oil, grease, cordite and a hundred other indefinable things. Even at that moment something in Adams stirred in envy. He motioned to the sandwiches.
“Don’t you want anything to eat?”
Gillibrand shook his head. “No; I ain’t hungry.”
Adams inhaled deeply on his cigarette. The question had to be asked—he had deferred it as long as possible. “What happened after you left the fjord?” he asked. And very gently: “What happened to your observer?”
Fatigue had dulled Gillibrand’s mind like an anaesthetic, but this sudden reminder brought both memory and agony back. The cup in his hand jerked sideways, spilling tea down his flying suit. His blue eyes blazed their protest.
“You ran into trouble somewhere,” Adams went on, trying to conceal his apprehension. “What happened?”
Gillibrand’s madness returned. He leapt to his feet with a curse. “What the hell is it to you? What’s it matter now... ?”
“I must know,” Adams said gently. “A man has been killed—I must know what happened.”
Ignoring him, Gillibrand turned and lurched for the door. Words were falling from his lips like blood from a re-opened wound. “Yeah ... I’d forgotten. The kid’s dead.... The little feller.... Oh, my Christ...”
He flung open the door and stumbled out. At that moment a siren screamed. He stopped dead, his bloodshot eyes staring around, trying to understand. The fire-tenders started up again and the ambulance began to wail. Under and through the noise came a deep, irregular hum that grew louder as he listened. He turned his eyes upwards and saw the arrival home of the Mosquitoes....
They were flying in an open, protective box, guarding the two planes in their centre. Now, under instructions from Control, they began to orbit the airfield while the two badly-hit planes were given priority down.
Adams joined Gillibrand outside the office, his eyes huge behind his thick spectacles. On the airfield ahead the ambulance, accompanied by the Medical Officer in his jeep, was speeding to the distant end of the runway. One of the fire-tenders was moving in the same direction, the firemen on its running-boards looking like men from another planet in their grotesque asbestos suits.
The first crippled Mosquito appeared over the boundary fence. Its approach was going to lead it right over the two watching men. Staring upwards they could see the blackened scars on its engine cowlings, the wingtip that was half tom away, the tail unit riddled and tattered. It looked like a toy plane that had been dragged through a thorn bush.
They felt the chill of its shadow as it passed over 153 them, the wind whining over its airfoils. Its starboard engine faltered for a second, the tom wing dipped, and Adams felt his breath lock in his throat. Somehow it skidded level again, both engines coughing like a man trying to clear his flooded lungs. It levelled off at least 100 feet above the airfield as if its pilot had decided to make a fresh approach. At that moment the starboard engine cut right out and the damaged wing dropped as though pulled down by wire....
There was an ago
nized pause that seemed to last minutes. Then a rending crash that tore through nerves like a bulldozer through soil. The Mosquito struck wing first, cartwheeled over, and fell tail forward, furrowing the ground for at least fifty yards. There was a dull, couching explosion, a vivid streak of light, then an out-flung cloud of oil smoke shot through with avid tongues of fire.
A fire truck raced up and thrust its radiator almost into the flames, hurling carbonic foam through its high-pressure nozzles. Swinging their axes like madmen, the firemen leapt into the flames, ignoring the danger from white-hot wing tanks and unspent cannon shells. But nothing moved in the furnace that was the cockpit. The stench of burning rubber drifted across the airfield, making Adams retch.
The second Mosquito made its approach. It was flying on only one engine, its dead propeller as stiffly upright as a tombstone. The broken spars and ragged cloth hanging under its fuselage made Adams think of the dragging entrails of a crippled bird. With half its control surfaces shot away, it was having the utmost difficulty in avoiding stalling as its flying speed dropped for the landing. Its wheels hit the runway with a thud that made Adams wince, there was a sharp crack as a tyre burst, and the plane leapt 20 feet into the air. It crashed down heavily, one wingtip digging into the ground and tearing off as if made of cardboard. The rest of the plane ground-looped to the accompaniment of snapping spars and tearing fabric. There was an ominous hissing as petrol came into contact with the white-hot engine, but this time a fire truck had a chance and used it well. The crew rammed their noz- zles right on to the smoking engines, covering them in foam. The danger of fire passed. The observer staggered from the shattered fuselage, then went straight back for his comrade. But the pilot was beyond aid. The firemen brought him out, as limp and broken as a child’s doll.
Gillibrand started forward and after a second’s hesitation Adams followed him, trying to keep up with the half-crazed Canadian. Gillibrand ran out on the field, then halted, his eyes staring up wildly at the smoke-blackened sky. A thin streak of saliva was trickling from his mouth. A Mosquito, with two mechanics holding its wingtips protectingly, came taxi-ing in their direction, its battle-scarred fuselage jolting over the uneven ground. Gillibrand, massive in his flying suit, turned and ran towards it.
Two men tumbled out of the plane. One was Teddy Young, the A Flight commander. His powerful shoulders were sagging with exhaustion. His observer was one of the reserve crews, a youngster named Reynolds whose blue eyes were still stupefied with the fear of death. As Gillibrand and Adams approached, the boy caught hold of the trailing edge of the wing to steady himself. He leaned down, vomiting from reaction.
Young peered at them through swollen eyes. He moistened his dry lips and tried to grin. His voice was little more than a croak.
“Hiya. I guess there’s no place like home, after all.”
Gillibrand’s voice was even thicker. “What happened?”
The Australian’s lips twisted. “We only ran into half the Hun Air Force over Bergen, that’s all.”
“You mean they were waitin’ for you?”
“Yeah. Some bastard must have alerted ’em. Don’t ask me how any of us got back. What about a smoke, cobber? You got one?”
But Gillibrand was stumbling away, wild-eyed and haggard. Later Adams wondered why he had not understood the Canadian’s torment over the news. But his mind at the time was full of the sight and sound of crashing aircraft, of dead and wounded friends. The Mosquitoes were still coming down and the ambulances making trip after trip to the casualty station. The airfield was a chaos of shot-up aircraft, shouting men, and wailing sirens. Some panic-stricken member of the Control staff kept firing off red Very lights, making Adams’ tight nerves jump each time they soared overhead. The fire crews were still busy among the wreckage of the crashed Mosquitoes, and the sullen smoke, stinking of melted rubber, was drifting like a pall across the field.
Adams turned his short-sighted gaze back to Young. The tension was working out of the Australian now, and he was gazing after Gillibrand resentfully.
“What’s the matter with him? Can’t he give a guy a smoke?”
Adams thrust a packet forward. “Here. Help yourself.”
Young muttered his thanks and went over to his observer. “Have a fag, Danny. Make you feel better.”
Reynolds shook his head. He tried to speak but failed. The whites of his eyes showed as he retched again, and Young caught hold of his arm.
“Give me a hand with him, will you?” he said to Adams.
Adams nodded and took Reynolds’ other arm. The youngster tried to fight them off but the Australian quietened him. “Nothing to be ashamed of, kid. I’ve puked often enough myself. You’ll be O.K. after a drink.”
As Adams slung the observer’s arm round his shoulder, he caught sight of two more men in flying clothes walking away from a battle-tom Mosquito. One was Grenville, the very immobility of his twisted face testifying to the pent-up emotions within him. His companion was Hoppy. Hoppy’s right shoulder and arms were soaked in blood, and smears of it made a red and grey patchwork of his flying suit. His thin, pointed face was drawn with pain, but a grin was locked around the cigarette in his mouth. With his uninjured arm he waved aside the solicitous attention of a crowd of mechanics. His shrill Cockney laughed came echoing back to Adams.
“Those 190’s put up a black today, skipper. Used a 156 shrimping net with an ’ole in the bottom . . . I’ll bet they caught ’ell when they got back.”
A shudder ran through Adams. The thing inside him was groaning at the waste and glorying at the courage. Fighting to keep his emotions under control, he helped the still-retching Reynolds off the field.
A thin thread of desperation ran through Davies’ high-pitched authoritative voice.
“Grenville, this thing is so urgent that if there was enough daylight left, Fd order the lot of you back tonight. As it is, you take them back at 0415 hours so that you can attack at dawn. That’s an order.”
There was no compromise in Grenville’s reply. “I’m not taking them back in a few hours’ time. Those boys need rest—what’s left of them. You’ll have to send someone else.”
Davies was fully aware of Grenville’s fatigue and for one of his temperament showed commendable patience. “I kept telling you—there isn’t anyone else to send. These Mosquitoes are still a new job—we’ve very few squadrons equipped with them and you’re the only one with experience to do this job. Don’t argue any more. Get some sleep now and you’ll feel better in the morning.”
Grenville leaned forward, an aggressive movement. “Jerry must have been alerted about something or he wouldn’t have been there waiting for us. Whatever it was, now we’ve had a crack, he’ll be doubly careful and keep a patrol up, certainly for twenty-four hours. If I take back what’s left of my boys, in the state they and their kites are in, not one of them will get back. I’m not doing it, and that’s final.”
Davies çyes were bright with shame and anger. “You realize this is insubordination? That I can have you arrested for disobeying an order?”
Grenville’s resentment went out of control. “You can do just what the hell you like; it won’t maky any difference. I’m not taking those boys out again until they’re fully rested and their kites are repaired. As they are, they’d never even get to Bergen in the dark, much less be able to fight half Jerry’s Air Force. What’s the matter with you? Do you want to murder them?”
Their eyes locked across the table. The silence reminded Adams of a time he had lain dazed alongside an unexploded bomb while the dust settled around him. He watched the tableau in fascination. The office was his own, the Intelligence Room. Alongside him was Grenville, still in his flying clothes, oil-smudged and battle-weary. Opposite him at the other side of the long table were Barrett, the Brigadier and Davies. All wore different expressions. Barrett had sweat on his forehead, and his heavy breathing betrayed his anguish. The Brigadier looked old and straight and very soldierly. Davies was quivering with anger now and
two red spots glowed high upon his cheeks.
Each of them, according to his background, was feeling a slightly different reaction to Grenville’s insubordination, yet each had a deep sympathy for it, knowing its cause. But, like Adams, they knew something that Grenville did not know, a thing so compelling it could not allow personal feelings to stand in the way.
Because of this Adams felt no resentment at Davies’s threat, wince at it though he did. He knew the urgency, the desperate race against time.
The Brigadier, laying a restraining hand on Davies’s arm, turned his grey eyes on Grenville’s defiant face. His voice was almost fatherly in its tone.
“I know how inhuman it must sound to you, Grenville, but believe me we wouldn’t ask you unless it was desperately important. Having to wait until dawn is a tragedy in itself’—the grief in his tone was unmistakable—“It may well mean it is too late. But we have to hope for the best, and that leaves us no option but to send you back.”
“Why is it so important?” Grenville gritted. “Why is a building in Bergen more important than these boys’ lives? What’s in it?”
In the silence that returned to the room, Adams could hear the distant clang of metal on metal as mechanics worked feverishly on the engine of some damaged Mosquito. He saw from their expressions that both the Brigadier and Davies were tempted to answer, but neither spoke.
Receiving no reply, Grenville lurched to his feet, staring bitterly at Davies. “You can tell the guard they’ll find me in my room.”
He stood to attention a moment, then left the ofiBce. There was a short silence in which none of the remaining men met each other’s eyes. Then Davies turned his ashamed face towards the Brigadier.
“He’ll be court-martialled, of course. We’ll put the squadron in charge of another commander. But I must warn you there may be only half-a-dozen planes serviceable by the morning.”
The Brigadier was staring down at the table. He lifted his head at Davies’s words, his eyes oddly bright.
“You can’t arrest him, Davies. He is doing it for his men.”
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