The contact pierced the mist of hate round Grenville’s mind. It was as if the unconscious man were pleading for his life. One could sacrifice a conscious man, a nod from him and the thing was done. But not this....
With a curse he jerked back on the stick. The shell-torn smoking Mosquito pulled away not ten feet above the stricken gunpost. Grenville’s duty now was to get Phillips home—he knew it, and his bitterness was complete. Duty lay on him like the curse of Cain.
With one engine feathered and his starboard aileron dragging loose, he struggled painfully to clear the snow-topped mountains. But the Focke-Wulfs were waiting. Crippled, with the last of his ammunition gone, he was helpless against them. A burst of 7 mm. sent a stab of agony through his legs, smashing them from the rudder bar. He managed to side-slip away, but he was tired . . . tired. ... A Focke-Wulf came weaving in for the kill, its pilots eyes cold behind his gunsight. He fired at point-blank range.
One burst was enough. The Mosquito’s weakened tailplane broke away and its surviving engine choked and died. It struck the mountain-top, skidded forward under its speed, then suddenly vanished in an enormous flurry of snow. A few seconds later all that showed to the circling aircraft was a pathetic tangle of spars and the flaming mass of a broken-off engine. The battle of the Svartfjord was over.
31
The innkeeper slowly closed the folder. “Every man who took part in that action was decorated, and Grenville got the V.C.” His eyes lifted upwards. “And there you are. That’s the whole story.”
The two young airmen were spellbound, too awed for the moment to speak. The innkeeper took a glance round the lounge while he waited for the questions he knew must come. The fire was burning red now, deepening the glow from the shaded lamps. No one else was present but the car driver, who was still sitting in the comer among the shadows. The room was hushed, and the atmosphere even more intense than it had been earlier. An odd shudder ran through the innkeeper as again the reflections from the photographs swam in his vision....
The English boy found his voice first, stealing the question from his friend’s lips. “What about the girls? What happened to them?”
The innkeeper nodded. “Maisie stayed on here for another eighteen months, then got herself married to another Canadian airman. This one came through all right, and she went back with him in 1945. She has two children now, a boy and a girl. I think she’s happy.”
The American found his voice now. “That’s good to know,” he said huskily. “And what about Hilde?”
“She didn’t stay here long after the raid. Like everyone else she thought Grenville had been killed. She went into the Services and stayed in uniform for the rest of the war.”
Daly was opening his mouth to ask another question when his friend again interrupted him. “Just what did happen to Grenville? How was it he escaped? I’ve never been sure of that.”
“Rocks tore off both wings, so keeping the burning engines away from the fuselage. The deep snow did the rest by cushioning the effects of the crash.”
“Grenville must have been convinced he wasn’t meant to die after that.”
“He must indeed. Of course, like Phillips he was badly wounded and in prison hospital for a long time.”
“They thought over here he was dead, didn’t they?”
“Yes. They believed it for over two months.”
The American could not be withheld any longer. “Hilde—that’s the girl I want to hear more about? What happened? Surely she met Grenville when he got back?”
The innkeeper shook his head heavily. “She has never seen him since that last night before the raid.”
Daly looked shocked. Then he exploded. “But why? Why the hell didn’t someone tell her the truth? Why didn’t this guy Adams have the guts to tell her?”
“He did tell her,” the innkeeper said quietly. “But it was two days before he found out what Grenville had said. He knew Grenville had no girl friend, he knew the whole thing was a pack of lies and told her so. He told her everything....”
Daly’s voice was hushed. “How did she take it?”
“It was a shock to her, but she took it as he’d always believed she would. But then it was too late.”
“But it wasn’t too late! Grenville came back. Couldn’t something have been done then?”
“It wasn’t her fault; it was Grenville’s. You’re forgetting his state of mind. It was he who had always believed there was an impassable barrier between himself and Hilde, and two years brooding in a prison camp did nothing to change his mind.”
“But if someone had told him she understood!”
“Someone did tell him, but he would not believe it. He was too bitter.”
“But in time he would have come round if they’d kept at him-”
“There was no way of keeping at him. Once he had given his story to Intelligence he was discharged, and then everyone lost touch with him. Letters came back undelivered; nobody knew if he was alive or dead. And to my knowledge nobody knows to this day.”
The silence had a finality about it that brought a sudden chill to the room.
“It’s a long time ago,” the innkeeper said wearily. “And yet at times it seems only yesterday. Nothing has ever seemed as real since.”
“What about Adams and his wife? How did they get on?” The American’s tone betrayed little interest; like the innkeeper he was only talking now to drive off the silence.
“Yes; I can even tell you that. They were divorced in 1948.”
One question had been in Daly’s mind ever since the innkeeper had laid down the manuscript, but it had had to take second place until more urgent ones were answered. Now he leaned forward curiously.
“There’s one thing I can’t make out, Pop. You say that Kearns was a man in his fifties. O.K.; I guess you’re in your fifties too. But you weren’t ten years ago. And there’s something else, too. How did you find out all the details—all that happened in the Intelligence Room, the Operations Room, and in the house in the country? And how did you find out all the technical stuff? You tell it as if you’d been one of the boys.”
The innkeeper took off his thick glasses and wiped them. “I realized some time ago that you hadn’t been told my name, and was rather hoping you wouldn’t ask.” His weak eyes looked at them almost apologetically. “It’s quite simple, really. You see, I’m Adams....”
There is always a shock in discovering that in real life characters have a way of living on beyond the final curtain. Both airmen felt it now.
“You’re Adams?” the American muttered.
“Yes. I bought the pub just after the war. The old man and I had become good friends and he gave me first option when he sold.” The years had weathered away Adams’ bitterness; there was barely a trace of it in his voice as he went on: “It was one of the things Valerie and I quarrelled about. She didn’t like the idea of being a country publican’s wife, and perhaps one can’t blame her—it can be quiet here in the winter.”
“Why did you buy it?” the English pilot asked curiously.
Adams hesitated. “I don’t really know.” Then he smiled. “Perhaps because I’m a bit of a sentimentalist. Perhaps that was it.”
“Was it you who told Grenville?”
“Yes; it was me. I wrote him in prison camp, telling him everything, and I had another go at him when he was ordered to give us the full story of the raid. But he wouldn’t discuss her at all. I wrote him quite a few times afterwards, too, but all my letters were returned address unknown.”
The American moved unhappily in his chair. “It’s a waste,” he muttered. “Two people kept apart like that—I don’t like it.”
Adams gave a faint smile. It was not difficult to recognize another sentimentalist.
“Where is Hilde now?” Daly asked. “Back in Norway?”
“Yes. She lives with a cousin in Bergen.” Adams tapped the manuscript in front of him, smiling ruefully. “It wasn’t easy to get her permission to include her in this book
. Of course, I haven’t used any of the girls’ true Christian names—theirs are the only fictional names in the book—but she was still very hesitant. I think only one thing changed her mind.”
“What was that?”
“I pointed out that if it were published, Grenville might read it and realize how wrong he had been. I’m pretty certain that was the only reason she gave in.”
Daly winced. “The poor kid,” he muttered. Then he looked at Adams eagerly. “But you’re right. It could bring him back—even after all these years. When is it to be published?”
Adams’ reply startled him. “It’s already published. It came out on the sixth of this month.”
“And you’ve heard nothing from him yet?”
Adams shook his head.
“Maybe he wouldn’t know where to find you,” Daly suggested.
“Oh, he knows I am here. I had already bought the pub when I last saw him in 1945.”
Daly was young. He refused to give up hope. “There’s still plenty of time. Supposing he did come back—could you get hold of Hilde easily?”
“Oh, yes. We keep in touch. In fact, she comes over here every spring to stay with me.”
“Here?” Daly said hoarsely. “Every spring? Why?”
Adams smiled quietly. “Why? Why do people keep their memories alive? Why do they keep souvenirs and photographs? Tell me that and I’ll tell you why she comes over here every spring.”
The young American did not need telling. He was staring at the huge bowl of daffodils on the counter with an awed, almost frightened look in his eyes.
Adams nodded. “Yes. This year as well. She has been here over a week now. Of course”—this is a trifle wistfully—“we have become good friends over the years. I like to think that has a little to do with her coming.” He glanced at his watch. “She went into town this afternoon. The bus is late; she should have been back over ten minutes ago.”
None of them had noticed how emotion had been clawing at the face of the man in the comer. Nor did they notice how he started now at Adams’ words. He only drew their attention five minutes later when light, hurrying footsteps on the gravel outside brought him sharply to his feet. Adams caught the abrupt movement, heard his harsh, expectant breathing, and peered at him curiously. Slowly the white, intent face swam into focus. Adams gave one incredulous gasp, and then the lounge door opened...
* * *
Half an hour later they had all gone from the lounge, and Adams stood alone behind the bar. Something inside him was still trembling, still glorying, still weeping a little. In the glistening blur before his eyes, the lights from the photographs had diffused and became his ghosts again. They were as gay now as they had been in the old days—laughing, joking, congratulating one another. Then, one by one, they waved to him and slipped out. They were the dead who wanted the living to live, and for years their leader’s loneliness had been their sorrow. They had joined him this night with a long-held wish, and at last they had seen that wish granted.
They could all rest well now.
633 Squadron Page 25
