All the time I stood taking in the chaos that was Thorby, Langdon was yelling at me. But I was too dazed to take it in. “Go on! Get out of the pit! All of you. Can’t you understand you’re standing by a bomb? Get out!”
Suddenly I grasped it. I glanced at him wonderingly. Where was the bomb? I couldn’t see one. I looked round the pit. Hood and Fuller were carrying Helson out. Chetwood was helping Strang. Others were standing about, dazed, or following Hood sheep-like out of the pit. Micky was cowering in a corner, sobbing, white-faced and panic-stricken. He had remained at his post throughout the action, calm and unperturbed by the hail of metal that had sung about him. Yet now that it was over, the reaction made a coward of him. Kan’s face was chalk-white and he staggered slightly as he left the pit. Blah just stood there, dazed and pale.
“Get out or you’ll be blown up.” I realised that Langdon was yelling at me. He was pointing at the parapet in front of me. Only then did my brain function. The parapet had collapsed because a bomb had hit it—a delayed-action bomb. I turned again to find Langdon struggling with Micky. Between us we got him out of the pit, stumbling over the litter of shell-cases. He was shaking like a leaf. Kan and Blah came with us, alive at last to the danger.
We took him into the hut. From there I looked back. Protruding from the broken parapet were the fins of a bomb. The nose was buried in the sand. Dropped from only thirty feet or so, it had not had the impetus to bury itself deeply. A cold chill ran down my spine as I realised what would have happened if it had been a percussion type instead of delayed action. God! how lucky we had been!
“We’ve got to get it away from there,” Langdon said. “Must get the gun into action as soon as possible.”
“There’s rope in the store hangar,” I said. “Can I borrow your bike?”
“Yes, of course.”
I took it and pedalled off down the roadway, weaving my way in and out between the craters. Anything for action. I was feeling very shaken. The smell of cordite was strong, especially round the craters, and as I neared the hangars the acrid smell of smoke filled my lungs. I passed what was left of the officers’ mess and made for the square. As I did so I heard a single Tannoy loudspeaker ordering all men not servicing aircraft to report to the square for firefighting.
The chaos of that square was quite indescribable. It was bounded on three sides by blazing buildings. They had dropped incendiaries as well as H.E. The fire-fighting equipment was quite inadequate for the task. The smoke was blinding. It filled my eyes to choking point and made them run. Men and girls were running everywhere. Some were screaming. The place reeked with pain and nervous exhaustion. I passed a dug-out shelter which had been hit. They were getting the dead and wounded out. I felt slightly sick and was convinced I could smell the blood.
There was broken glass everywhere and my back tyre was soon flat. Ambulance and A.R.P. fire-pumps were beginning to come in from districts around. I reached the Educational without being knocked down. There was nothing left of it. The station hospital had gone, too. It was just a pile of rubble with one wall standing and the front door, upright in solitary splendour. A girl in a torn Waaf uniform staggered through the ruins and came out by the front door. She closed it carefully behind her. Her face and hair were coated with a thick dust of powdered masonry and her hands were bleeding.
I thought suddenly and sickeningly of Marion. Where had she been during the raid? Had she gone to a shelter? Of course she must have done. Was she in that one that had been hit? Questions passed through my mind unanswered. I knew then that she meant something to me. What, my confused mind could not realise. All I knew then was that the memory of her face, those clear eyes, that tilted nose, that straight fair hair, hurt. It was like green grass and the river, like a mountain at sunset, against that chaos of broken brick. It was the glimpse of beauty in the midst of ugliness that hurt—the need for beauty that was out of reach. It was symbol of the best that was in me, chained to the horrors of man-made catastrophe that was the moment’s reality.
I turned up the road leading to the rearmost hangar. Almost immediately I had to get off my bicycle. The road was full of rubble. This was where the bomber we had brought down had crashed. A whole hangar had collapsed like a pack of cards. The tail of the machine with the swastika on it was sticking up out of the ruins of the collapsed roof. It was a miracle it hadn’t caught on fire, for the roof had been built of wood.
The hangar I wanted adjoined it on the other side. The road in front of me was blocked by the remains of the Naafi Institute. I left my bike and clambered through the ruins. The north wall was still standing and by keeping close to this the going was quite easy. At the farther end, where it adjoined the next hangar, part of the roof was still intact.
Smothered by the dust and smoke and intent on reaching the store hangar, where I knew I should find the rope I wanted, I did not see Vayle until I was right on top of him.
I looked up, startled. He was hardly recognisable. His clothes were torn and covered with dust and his usually well-groomed hair was dishevelled. There was something about his face that frightened me. Pain and bitterness seemed to mingle in the set of his mouth. And his eyes had lost their cold alertness and were fever bright. He looked at me without recognition.
I was just hastening on when I glanced down and saw the thing at his feet. It was the crumpled body of a girl. The face was drained of all colour, and the blood from the gaping wound in her head was congealing with the dust on her face and clothes. I hesitated. And then I realised that it was Elaine Stuart, and I hurried on. The memory of Vayle’s wild dry eyes lingered with me as I passed into the store hangar.
She was dead, of course. No doubt of that. And she had meant a great deal to him. That wild dryeyed look! I remembered the photograph. Why had he kept that all these years? And then a thought occurred to me. Suppose she had been his wife?
And in a flash I saw it all. The raiders had gone for personnel, not for the hangars. Vayle had known this. Elaine and he had gone to the hangars and not to the shelters. She, with a woman’s premonition, had been afraid of this and had cried out in her sleep against it. But in the morning he had soothed her fears and now, because we had downed a bomber with a lucky shot, she lay dead at his feet.
I picked up a big coil of light rope lying beside a pile of flares. I could not help feeling sorry for the man. He had thought the hangars the safest place in the ’drome. I could imagine how he felt.
I had to go back the same way. The end of the other road I knew was blocked. And because of the piled-up ruin of the roof I had to pass quite close to Vayle. He looked at me. And this time into his dazed eyes came recognition. With it came a look of surprise that I did not quite understand. He seemed somehow shocked at the sight of me. I thought he was going to speak to me and I hurried by him. What was there I could say? The stricken look had never left his face though the expression had changed when he recognised me. For the moment at least the girl meant more to him than all his plans.
I retrieved my bike and rode back to the square, the rope slung over my shoulder. It was heavy and I found it difficult to negotiate the scattered debris. Even in the short time I had been getting the rope, things had changed in the square. There were men everywhere, running to shouts of command. Three proper fire-engines had arrived, and more ambulances and A.F.S. fire-pumps. There were civilian cars too—doctors’ cars, mostly. And the dead and wounded were being laid out on the grass at the edge of the square. Hoses were being run out and great jets of water were being poured into the blazing blocks.
Clear of the square I passed an Army car with its engine running. There was no one in it. I realised suddenly that we should need something to tow the bomb away. I left Langdon’s bike and commandeered the car.
It took me but a moment to get back to the gun site in it, bumping over the grass of the flying field because the roadway was too full of craters. Langdon grabbed the rope as soon as I pulled up. He did not hesitate-, but ran straight to the bomb, paying th
e rope out as he ran. We watched, half expecting the thing to go off as he tied the end of the rope round the fins. He did it quickly, but he showed no trace of nerves. It was not the sort of thing you want to think about beforehand. Yet Langdon had known that he, as detachment commander, was going to do it, all the time I had been away getting the rope.
As he ran back I tied the other end of the rope to the rear bumpers of the car. The rope was about fifty yards long, but even so I did not feel very happy about it as I climbed back into the driving seat. I took the strain slowly in bottom. And as I moved forward with the full weight, I could feel the bump and slither of the bomb at the end of the rope as it followed me like some terrible hobgoblin.
But it was soon over. I left the thing well out on the flying field and, untying the rope, drove back to the site.
“That’s marvellous of you, Barry,” Langdon said as I got out of the car.
I felt myself blushing. Blushing had been an awful bugbear to me in my youth, but I thought I had grown out of it. “It’s nothing to what you did,” I said to hide my embarrassment.
He said: “You’d better return the car now. And at the same time you can take Strang to a first-aid post. His hand is giving him a good deal of pain.”
Strang protested. But he was as white as a sheet and, in spite of a rough-and-ready bandage, blood was dripping quite freely from his hand. They got him into the seat beside me and I drove the big car back along the edge of the field.
As I came into the square the one undamaged Tannoy that I had heard before announced: “Preliminary air-raid warning. All personnel not engaged in urgent work take cover. Preliminary air-raid warning.”
The crowd in the square seemed to thin out like magic and vanish. I drove through the scatter to the nearest ambulance. I attracted the attention of a nurse who was trying to stop the blood of a poor fellow whose leg had been shattered. She seemed incredibly cool and impersonal. She glanced at Strang’s hand whilst continuing to work on the man’s leg, “You’ll be all right for the moment,” she told Strang. “Just stay around till we’ve patched up some of the worst cases. We’ll soon fix that for you.” She belonged to a Canadian ambulance unit.
I wanted Strang to get immediate attention. But a glance round told me that the staff of every ambulance in sight was equally busy. There was nothing for it but to let him stay and take his turn. An alarm was on and I had to get back to my site. With Thorby in its present disorganised state anything might happen. The great thing was that the guns should be fully manned.
I sat him down on the grass. “They’ll fix you up in no time,” I said. He did not answer. He was dazed with pain and loss of blood. I went back to the car.
I was just on the point of climbing into the driving seat when I noticed a civilian lying on the grass near by. Something about the white leathery skin of his face made me pause. Streaks of blood from a cut on his forehead showed scarlet on the white sweat of his face. His pale-blue eyes were wide and staring and his lips moved as he muttered to himself. His left shoulder and arm appeared to have been badly crushed. His clothes had been cut away from the shoulder and his hurt roughly dressed. It was his boots that brought recognition to my mind. They were clumsy hobnailed boots—a workman’s boots.
I went over to where he lay, groaning and muttering to himself. And as I stared down at him, I knew I was right. He was the workman who must have planted that incriminating diagram in my pay-book. “Well, serve him right,” I thought. And I was just turning away when I heard his lips mumble: “It won’t hurt you if you splash water over it.”
Some childhood memory of playing boats. But because it was spoken in German and not with the slight Scottish accent I had last heard him using, it drew my interest. And I bent down to listen, remembering how Elaine’s sleep babbling could have told me something. But it was partly gibberish, partly childhood memories that he mumbled. It was all in German and occasionally he got a word wrong or mispronounced it. If he were a German, and that seemed probable as he would surely babble his own language in his delirium, it seemed reasonable to suppose that it was a long time since he had been in Germany.
I bent closer. “I’m sorry you won’t be with us for the day.” I spoke in German. It seemed funny to be speaking of der Tag in another way. He showed no sign of having heard. I shook him and repeated my statement.
His eyes remained wide, unseeing and expressionless. But apparently my voice made contact with his subconscious, for he murmured: “I’m all right. I shall be there. I’m to drive one of the lorries.” He tried to raise himself, his eyes sightless. “It’ll be all right, won’t it? Say it will be all right.”
“But you won’t remember what day it is,” I suggested, still speaking in German.
“Yes, I will.” He mumbled so that I could scarcely hear him.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “You don’t remember the day now.”
“Yes, I do. Yes, I do. It’s—it’s——” He struggled desperately with his memory. “It’s I pick the stuff up at Cold Harbour on——”
His moment of lucidity seemed suddenly to vanish. The sweat poured down his ashen face with the effort he had made. He relapsed into the uncouth babblings of his delirium. But I scarcely noticed it. My mind had grasped avidly at the vital point. Cold Harbour! Elaine had talked of a Cold Harbour Farm in her sleep. Cold Harbour was not a very common name.
I was excited. I began trying to draw him again. And when that failed I tried direct questions. But I could get no sense out of him though I shook the poor devil till the sweat turned the blood to water on his face with the pain of it.
In the end I had to give it up. I got back into the car and drove it across to where I had first found it. Langdon’s bike was still there. I was just mounting it when a lance-corporal dashed up and caught me by the arm. “What the devil were you doing with that car?”
I had just started to explain when a brass hat with red tabs all over him came panting up. I saluted. “What’s all this?” he demanded. “My car. You took my car. Why?”
I told him.
“That’s no excuse. Monstrous behaviour! Name and unit? Make a note of it, Corporal.” And with a snort he disappeared inside the car. He was in a hurry to get off.
I rode back to the site. They were all in the pit. Nobody spoke. They were all watching the sky. They looked strained, terribly strained. I realised that my shirt was sticking to me. The air throbbed with the heat. I took my helmet off to wipe the sweat from inside it with my handkerchief. “Where’s Micky?” I asked. Kan was at the firing position.
“He’s not feeling very bright,” Langdon said charitably. “He’s gone to the shelter at the dispersal point over there.”
“Not very bright!” said Bombardier Hood. “He’s scared out of his wits. Can’t take it.”
“Well, we’re none of us feeling very brave,” said Langdon.
Mason suddenly arrived on a bike. He was the only link with Gun Ops., the telephone having been hit. But I didn’t hear the plot he gave Langdon. I was staring at my steel helmet. There was a scarred dent on the back of it. On the back of it! And I was remembering just where I had been standing and which way I had been facing when that bullet had ricochetted off my helmet. And a cold shiver tingled up my spine as I remembered that I had been facing the field and all the ’planes had passed in front of me or over the pit. None had passed behind me. Yet the dent was on the back of my tin hat. I hadn’t taken it off until this moment, so that I knew I had not had it on back to front. Besides, I remembered how my head had been jerked forward.
Somebody had fired at me from behind! And into my mind came a picture of the surprised look on Vayle’s face as I had passed him in the hangar.
CHAPTER EIGHT
EVERYMAN’S HAND
I WAS SCARED. More scared than I had ever been in my life. I could stand up to bombing. I knew that now. There was something impersonal about being bombed—about war altogether. My own reaction to bombing was very much that of, “If a bom
b has your name on it——” It was not a direct attack. The bomber was not trying for me personally. My life was in the hands of fate—always such a comforting thought. One took one’s chance, and there was nothing one could do about it.
But this! This was totally different. There was nothing impersonal about an attempt to shoot one in the back. It wasn’t just a random shot into the pit by some fanatical fifth columnist, I knew that. I had been the specific target. This was murder, not war. I could face machine-gun bullets—-again an impersonal attack. But a deliberate attempt on my life made my scalp crawl with fear. I did not take my chance with others. There was no comfortable feeling that my life rested in the hands of a kindly fate. I had to face this alone. I was under sentence of death at Vayle’s orders. And I knew now why surprise had for a moment ousted the grief from his face when, standing beside Elaine’s body, he had looked up to see me in the hangar.
I suppose I must have looked pretty scared, for John Langdon put his hand on my shoulder. “It was nice of you to tow that bomb for me,” he said. “I couldn’t have done it. I had expended what little nerve I had on tying the rope to the bloody thing.”
His remark had the desired effect and, momentarily detached, I watched my ego warm to that kindly praise. It amused me, too, to think that my own fear was a particular and personal one. Every one else in the pit was scared of one thing—a further attack on the ’drome. And I didn’t give a damn about that. I was scared because I was singled out for a murderous personal attack. And because their fear seemed trivial by comparison with mine, I experienced a sudden access of confidence. Their hostility seemed unimportant now, and I felt quite equal to any questioning.
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