“But you know they’re being laid?”
“Certainly, sir. Every one in the camp must know that by now.”
“What were you doing between seven-thirty and eight last night?”
“In the Naafi, drinking, sir. Sergeant Langdon will bear me out. He was there too.”
“Is that right, sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you still think this is the man?” Ogilvie asked the workman.
“I think so.” His voice sounded sullen. “I can’t be sure. His face was in the shadow. Also I’m not certain about the exact time. I didn’t think of that until afterwards.”
“Did you go to the civilian bar at all last night, Hanson?” Ogilvie asked.
“The supper canteen? Yes, sir. I went there shortly after eight with Chetwood and Furle.”
“I see. But you did not speak to this man?”
“No, sir. I was with the others the whole time.”
“This man says a gunner engaged him in conversation in the canteen and that later he saw him jotting down notes. He has now identified that gunner as you. And you admit that you were in the canteen at about the time he states.” Ogilvie turned to Chetwood. “Do you agree that Hanson was in your company the whole time, Chetwood?”
“As far as I can remember, sir.” I experienced again that sense of undeveloped hostility about me. Chetwood could easily have committed himself to a direct “Yes.” But he had hedged.
Ogilvie looked at me uncertainly. I could see that he did not know what to do. “You realise that this is a very serious charge, Hanson?”
I said, “Yes, sir. But it is quite untrue.” My voice trembled despite all efforts at control. “This is the first time I have ever seen this man.”
Ogilvie turned to the workman. “I don’t feel justified in pursuing the matter unless you can say definitely that this is the man.”
There was a pause whilst the fellow thought this over. He looked searchingly at me once or twice as though trying to make up his mind. At last he said, “I can’t be absolutely certain. But he looks very like him.” He hesitated, and then said, “Perhaps if he would submit to a search. As I told you, I saw him jotting something down on a piece of paper afterwards. If he is the right man he probably still has the paper on him.”
“How do you know he was taking notes of his conversation with you?” I felt Ogilvie was annoyed and I think he was inclining to take my side.
“I don’t. That’s why I suggest a search. That would satisfy me.”
Ogilvie glanced at the C.O. Winton gave an almost imperceptible nod. “All right.” Ogilvie turned to me. “Do you object to a search?”
“No, sir,” I said. “But I strongly object to being suspected on such flimsy grounds.”
“I understand. The whole thing is most distasteful to me.” He turned to Langdon. “Will you go through Hanson’s kit, Sergeant? All papers to be examined thoroughly and take care that you leave no hiding-place unsearched. Now, Hanson, come with me into the sergeant’s room and we’ll go through everything you have on you.”
It was a most degrading business. Ogilvie left nothing to chance. I understood his thoroughness. He was determined to prove definitely to his own satisfaction that I was all right.
When it was all over and they had found nothing incriminating, he merely said, “That’s all, Sergeant Langdon,” and marched out of the hut. He was furious at the ignominious position in which he had been placed. I had some satisfaction out of the episode, for I surprised a look of something like frustration in the eyes of the little workman.
I felt excited now that the ordeal was over. It had achieved something. I now knew two of Vayle’s satellites. There was the workman who had planted the diagram in my Army pay-book that morning. And there was this little man with watery blue eyes that had a quick darting alertness and his fresh round face.
As soon as the door closed behind him I became conscious of the unnatural silence in the room. I knew that every one was just dying to discuss what had happened and that my presence embarrassed them. Rather than face the barrage of speculation and comment at my expense, I went outside. As I closed the door I heard Micky say, “Bloody sauce, coming in like that and holding an identication parade!”
I lit a pipe and went over to the pit to talk to the air sentry, a little Welshman called Thomas who was old enough to have been through two years of the last war. He asked me what Ogilvie had wanted. I told him what had happened. He thought it over for a moment. Then he said, “These civilians, they get panicky. They get so as they think every one but themselves is a spy. Indeed and I remember a case in ’eighteen. The poor devil was shot for something that he never did at all. And all because of a civilian who laid a charge before he had paused to consider.” And he launched into a long story about a soldier who had been shot at Arras just before the big offensive.
It was very hot out there in the glare of the sun. I took my battle top off and lay down on the top of the parapet. Thomas chattered on. He was a great talker. I closed my eyes. The light on my eyeballs was red as it shone through my closed lids. I felt a sense of satisfaction. Things were moving, though as yet I had taken no positive action. It seemed to augur well. And yet at the back of my mind I felt uneasy. I had so narrowly escaped an extremely awkward situation. It was only chance that I was not now under arrest pending a court-martial. The next time I might not be so lucky. And that there would be a next time I was quite certain. They had shown their hand too openly to me not to make sure that during the next few critical days I should be out of the way.
But uneasy though I was, it did not prevent me from falling fast asleep on top of the sandbags. Mental strain, in addition to the nervous and physical strain from which every one was suffering, had made me incredibly tired.
I slept for nearly three-quarters of an hour. Yet when I went back into the hut some of them were still talking about what had happened.
“Just because a bloke’s picked out in an identication parade, it don’t mean he’s a Nazi,” Micky was saying. “Anyway,” he added pointedly, “he ain’t going to ’is grandmuvver’s funeral to-morrow.”
There was an awkward silence as I came in. Instinctively I knew that it was Chetwood who had caused Micky’s quixotic outburst. But strange to say, I did not feel afraid of their hostility for the moment. I felt confident and at ease. “Well,” I said, “I hope you boys have made up your minds whether I’m a Nazi agent or not.”
I had caught them on the raw. Chetwood, Helson, Fuller and Bombardier Hood all seemed trying to appear unconcerned. But at the same time they were watchful. And I knew that Chetwood and Hood, at any rate, were suspicious. I should have to be careful. From now on everything I said and everything I did would be marked. I lay down on my bed, pulled a blanket over me and pretended to sleep.
The afternoon seemed to pass slowly, unaccustomed as we were to such a long period free of alarms. Some slept, others played chess or cards. The hut was quiet save for stampings and hammerings on the roof. Micky, with the aid of Fuller, was endeavouring to camouflage the hut with branches of hazel cut from the woods at the foot of the slope. I understood his frame of mind, and only wished that I could have found something to do that would have kept me occupied. In a way, I was as scared as he was, though, strangely enough, it wasn’t the prospect of being bombed that scared me. That was something tangible. I am a great believer in fate. If a bomb is going to get you, then it’s going to get you, and there’s damn all you can do about it. It might just as well be the wheels of a bus in peace-time. But I was deliberately walking into danger. There was a difference.
The second Take Post of the day came at about five, just as tea had arrived. It did not develop and all that came of it was that the baked beans on toast were cold. Micky had practically finished the hut by the evening, so that it looked like Malcolm’s army before Dunsinane.
I spent the evening trying to read, of all things, Liddell-Hart’s Foch. I was in a deck-chair out in the open pa
tch of grass between the hut and one of the newly constructed pill-boxes. It was quiet and still—a beautiful summer evening that made one think of the river. The peace of it was incredible. The sun sank slowly in a golden glow. An Anson and an old Harrow, cumbersome yet very light off the ground, came in and took off after a short stay. That was the only activity. There might have been no war on. God! how I wished there weren’t! I was too conscious of how changed the scene might be in the short space of twenty-four hours. And all the time I was progressing slowly through Liddell-Hart’s account of the follies of the last war, epitomised in the slaughter of Passchendaele.
I was sitting facing the roadway and shortly after seven-thirty my eyes strayed more and more from my book. Despite an assumption of calm, there was an unpleasant fluttering in my stomach. I found myself hoping that Marion would not come.
But she did, and my heart sank. I saw her when she was down near the hangars. Even at that distance I could see the fair straight hair beneath her cap catching the slanting sunlight. I watched to see whether she would turn in at Ops. But no, she came straight on, strolling leisurely towards the pit. When she was about fifty yards away I rose to my feet and went into the hut, to show her that I had seen her. I got my pipe, and by the time I came out again she had turned and was walking back towards Ops.
Well, the die was cast. I couldn’t turn back. I felt much easier now that everything was settled. I sat and read on until the light began to fail, shortly after nine. When I went into the hut I found it empty. The detachment on Stand-to were already in the pit. The others had all drifted off to the Naafi. I had a momentary sense of lostness. But it did not last, for I had too much on hand.
I made my bed and collected my washing things. Langdon was on Stand-to that night, having changed with Bombardier Hood because there was a party at the sergeants’ mess the following night. He raised no objection to my request for a bath. It was the only excuse I had for leaving the gun site at that time. The showers were in the big permanent blocks to the west of the hangars.
I made straight for the educational block. There was no moon yet and it was beginning to get really dark with clouds coming up from the west. It looked like rain.
The trouble was that I had not studied my terrain. I had found out roughly how to reach Vayle’s rooms. But I naturally presumed that if he was out he would have locked the door. Some alternative method of entry had to be found. At the most I had about forty minutes in which to carry out the whole scheme. A bath couldn’t possibly take longer and I did not want to upset Langdon. I decided to risk everything on a roof climb.
But first I had to make certain that Vayle hadn’t changed his plans and stayed in. I went straight into the educational block and up the stairs. The ground floor was composed of two big lecture rooms, one with desks and the other full of a litter of band instruments and sports kit. Upstairs were two large recreation rooms with a billiard table and table tennis. These rooms, like the two downstairs, were separated by sliding partitions. At the far end was the library, which was very well supplied with technical books. It was above the library that Vayle’s rooms were situated.
I tossed my washing things on to a chair in the farther recreation room, and then, making certain that the players were all engrossed in their snooker game, I crossed the passage and climbed the short flight of stairs that led to Vayle’s green-painted front door.
I rang the bell. It sounded faintly in the rooms beyond. But there was no answer. I tried again and waited. Then I turned the handle of the door. As I had expected, it was locked. Worse still, it was a Yale lock. I had two Yale keys amongst my collection. I tried them, but they would not even fit into the keyway. To break in was out of the question. The door looked solid and any noise would bring the snooker players out. The roof was the only chance.
I went back down the stairs and out into the fast-gathering dark. A quick glance at the front of the building, still dimly visible, told me that there was no way up there. Anyway, I should have been seen. I went round to the back, through a narrow alleyway between the Educational and the bulk of Station Headquarters. It was quieter here and there was a screen of faded laurel bushes.
I gazed up at the side of the building. There was a drainpipe. But I was in no doubt about my ability to climb drainpipes. The Educational was not a tall building, compared with the big blocks of the living-quarters and Station Headquarters which surrounded it. Moreover, it had a sloping roof and gables. It had, I think, at one time been a house. The aerodrome had grown up round it, and it had been added to as the needs of education and recreation increased. It was in the older, gabled part that Vayle’s rooms were.
I had hoped to find a skylight. But as far as I could see there was none. My eyes drifted over the windows. They were casement type, and one was slightly open. It looked like a bathroom window, for it was smaller than the rest and appeared to be of frosted glass. Below it were pipes. And below them and a little to the right was the ridge of an outhouse roof. The outbuilding had originally, I suppose, been the kitchens, but it had been converted into a cloakroom.
It seemed the only chance. I was wearing canvas shoes. I might just be able to make it. I slipped through the archway of the laurel hedge and climbed on to the sill of the outhouse window. A press up on the guttering, which fortunately held, and I had made the roof. From now on I was above the shelter of the hedge and risked being seen. I pressed forward as quickly as possible.
The roof was steep, but I made the ridge of it with an effort. By standing upright on it against the wall of the main building, the bathroom pipes were about level with my chin and the sill of the window I was making for was only just out of reach.
I glanced round. I could now see beyond the laurel hedge and the grass space behind it to the barrack blocks. A door opened and two figures emerged. I waited until they were out of sight round the angle of Station Headquarters. There was now no one in sight that I could see. I turned back to the wall and measured the distance to the sill above my head. My muscles felt weak yet tensed. If I failed to grip it or if I had not the strength to pull myself up, I had only the sharp edge of the roof to land back on.
I hesitated. Twice I nerved myself for the spring, and twice my nerve failed me at the last moment. And then suddenly I had jumped, pressing up with my right hand on the wastepipe. My fingers grazed the edge of the sill and closed on it. I hung for a second, my muscles slack, taking the weight of my body on my left hand. Then with a wriggle I forced myself upwards, exerting all the energy of both arms and scrabbling against the brickwork with my feet.
I thought I should never make it. But a final effort and my knee was on the wastepipe beside my right hand. After that it was easy. I got both hands on the sill and pressed up until I was standing on the wastepipe. I pulled the window wide open and wriggled through. Before closing it again I looked out towards the barrack blocks. One man was just going in the door. But he showed no sign of having just witnessed anything unusual. Otherwise, there was not a soul in sight.
So far so good. I closed the window and lit a match, shielding the flame with my hand. It was a bathroom and lavatory combined. I opened the door and found myself in a narrow passage. The last flicker of my match showed me the front door at the other end—only this time I was looking at the inside of it. I went on tiptoe down the passage. There were two doors leading off to the right. I opened the first slightly. There was no sound and it was very dark, for the blackout curtains were drawn. I switched on the light. It was a bedroom. There was no one there. It was a cold, bare-looking room with cream-distempered walls and an over-modern gas fire. The other room, which also proved to be empty, was more cheerful. There was a heavily banked-up fire in the grate—a clear indication that Vayle had gone out for the evening. The walls were covered with a pleasant biscuit-coloured paper which gave an illusion of sunlight. The curtains were a dark green, and there were one or two tasteful little water-colours on the walls. To the right of the fireplace was a bookcase, to the left a radiogra
m. But what interested me most was the big, old-fashioned roll-top desk under the window.
I decided to start on this, as the most likely repository for the clue for which I was seeking. My luck seemed definitely in—the desk was open. I pushed back the roll top to find myself confronted by an untidy litter of papers, books, note-books and pocket-worn letters. I glanced at my watch. It was twenty to ten. I had thirty-five minutes in which to carry out my search and get back to the site. It didn’t seem long when I had no idea what it was that I was looking for. I began methodically to go through the litter. But as I proceeded I discarded caution in favour of speed. What did it matter if he found out that someone had searched his rooms. In fact, it might help. It might scare him into the open. In any case, it was quite clear that he had already decided to get me out of the camp one way or the other.
It took the better part of quarter of an hour to go through that desk with all its drawers and pigeonholes. In the end I reached such a frantic state that I was just throwing the stuff on to the floor as soon as I had glanced at it. There were books on tactics and military history, books on dynamics and ballistics and higher mathematics, mixed up with red paper-covered books filled with notes in a clear, rather ornamental hand. There were bills, masses of them, demand notes, letters from friends. These last I paid particular attention to. But they seemed harmless enough. In fact, when I had been through the contents of the desk and emptied the last drawer on to the carpet, I knew nothing more about Vayle’s activities than I had done before, except that he was a reluctant payer of bills, a first-class mathematician, something of an expert on military history and tactics, and a man who had a large circle of friends.
I turned in disgust from the desk and gazed anxiously round the room, softly lit by the standard lamp in the corner next to the radiogram. I was feeling nervous. Time was passing. The regular and inevitable tick of the clock on the mantelpiece filled the tiny room. I had to find something. I had to. I felt desperate. My skin pricked with sweat. This was the only positive action I could take. If I found nothing, I should never be able to convince the authorities of the danger of the position. And if I couldn’t convince them of that, then——
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