The House of Flowers

by Charlotte Bingham

  Billy and Scott had been forced to take the long route. Owing to the activities in the Channel both of the Allies and of the Germans, few merchant boats were leaving the ports along the northern French coast and no small fishing boat was willing to take the risk of making a run across the minefield that particular stretch of water had become. Nor was there any chance of an airlift since not only were they badly positioned but they also no longer had access to a radio. So they made their way home via the long and still very dangerous escape route that wound up through the very northern tip of France, through Belgium and finally into the Low Countries, the liberation of Brussels itself still a good three months away. But like many others before them, thanks to the unending help afforded them by Resistance fighters everywhere, the two men made it, finally finding berths on a merchant ship headed for Harwich that was sailing under a neutral flag.

  The day they set sail, the Allied armies chose also to take to the seas, crossing the English Channel in their thousands to begin a series of terrible battles that would finally herald the end of the war in Europe. One infantry unit of the US First Division landing on Omaha Beach had cause to be particularly grateful to the unsung hero who was crossing the Channel in the opposite direction, the young man who had discovered and depicted all the enemy fortifications and gun positions along a particularly important position on top of the very cliff under which they had landed, thus arming them with the sort of advance knowledge that enabled them to surprise and knock out these resolute defences, creating an all important throughway for their following troops.

  The message soon made its way to Anthony’s desk. As soon as he read it, he set about finding a way to facilitate the request it contained.

  It was Cissie who came up with the answer.

  ‘Obviously,’ she drawled, looking at the map Anthony had spread out before him. ‘Obviously Blackbird can’t move from where she is, first because Jerry is going to be looking for her and second because he’s going to be very busy in that particular area.’

  ‘One has to imagine the Red Birds did as told and scooted,’ Anthony remarked. ‘If any of them fell into Gestapo hands and one of them cracked on the wheel, then our own little bird’s chances would go down to near zero. I think she’s going to have to sit this one out.’

  ‘I don’t think so, if you don’t mind me saying, duck,’ Cissie replied. ‘I don’t think she’ll be able to sit it out because they’re going to comb that jolly old landscape with a fine-tooth. No one pulls the wool over the Gestapo’s eyes and gets away with it – not if they can help it. And if they don’t find her themselves, you can bet yer bottom someone will blow the whistle on her. No, I think one simply has to go in and get her.’

  ‘Got enough petrol in the Austin, Cissie?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking cars, Tony, you oaf. I was thinking planes. ’Ickle planes.’

  ‘Any ideas for ’ickle pilots? Everyone’s awfully busy, I’m afraid, as you’ve probably noticed.’

  ‘As it happens,’ Cissie said, ‘I think I know the very person.’

  Poppy went to collect the plane herself, for the very good reason that she wanted to see Trafford again in order to get all tips she could for the dangerous mission she had readily agreed to undertake.

  ‘Any news ’bout the old man, sweetie?’ Trafford wondered after she had greeted her friend. ‘Or is it still a case of no news being good news?’

  ‘That’s it, I’m afraid, Traffy. But actually I do believe that. They do have a habit of telling one the worst PDQ at the office. So I have this feeling . . .’ Poppy smiled, holding up crossed fingers.

  ‘You betcha, Pop,’ Trafford agreed. ‘And won’t there be a party when he touches terra firma, eh? Now, to the matter in hand this – er dodge of yours. Obviously you’re going to have to try to miss their blooming radar, sweetie, which means going in very low where poss, because in Tiger Tim you won’t be able to go très high. Since most of the ballyhoo’s going on west at the moment, one hopes Jerry’s eye won’t be quite so on the ball over the northern coast – but even so they’ll take a pot-shot at you if you get in their sights. Best way to avoid that sort of nonsense is to bunny hop – as if you were hedgehopping, really. Fly in over the coast in a series of hops, up and down, up and down – should keep you off their screens because they won’t be able to get a good line on you for long enough to pick you up as an enemy aircraft. Same goes for the flak – just keep flying at various altitudes. In a way, dear girl, the lower the better, but then of course they’ll have the weather ears on and they’ll hear you if you’re too fudging low. Whatever you do, and however you do it, when you reach target – which I’m too damn’ sure you will – your very bestest bet is to touch down, but don’t stop. Keep Tiger Tim moving and get your pickup to run like stink and jump on board while you’re still motoring. You can get them those instructions before you go, roger? Because when Jerry gets wind of some beastly little antique flying in over his head he’ll run his fat little legs off after you in order to shoot you out of the sky, so get in and out FAYFC. Fast as you fudging can. When you’re flying back, as you leave the airfield, keep low. Oddly enough it’s harder to hit a low flying aircraft at speed when it’s right over head than higher up when you can take its measure. You’ve simply got to make it très, très difficile to take a pop at you, then just fly like budgery till you see the White Cliffs de Dover and hear dear Vera singing. I have an even better idea. Why don’t I make the flight? I’m a lot older and much more disposable than you are, so why don’t I make the flight? Yes, that’s settled – I shall make the flight and you shall stay here and go to the ball.’

  ‘If you try any of that nonsense, Traffy,’ Poppy warned her, ‘the boys have promised to help me lock you up in the hangar until I get back. Got that?’

  ‘Should never have taught you how to fly, dear thing,’ Trafford sighed. ‘Because this is just the sort of lark I was born for.’

  Once it had been confirmed that Blackbird had received her orders and would be ready to be collected at 0130 hours the following morning, Poppy was given the green light. Anthony drove her personally to the airstrip from which Billy had taken off on his mission and at which Poppy had discovered hers had been aborted. Now she had the chance to make good the terrible disappointment she had suffered that night by performing one of the most difficult collection jobs undertaken by the Service during the entire war. She had of course no idea of the identity of the Blackbird, other than that the agent was one of the Colonel’s most valiant bogeys who simply had to be collected, not only to save the agent’s life but because of vital information the Blackbird had collected.

  Poppy mentally prepared herself for the ordeal facing her, hers not to reason why. It was hers to do and hopefully not to die. She had been sick with nerves all the previous night, spending the dark hours hugging her little dog to her in her bed as, unable to sleep, she tried to imagine everything that could and possibly would happen to her so that she would be ready for all contingencies. But in the small hours the more she thought about it the more absolutely terrified she became, until abandoning hope of any further sleep altogether she decided to get up, make herself something hot to drink and sit by the fire until dawn came up when she knew her sanity would be restored.

  It was restored long before the sun began to rise in the east, gently flooding the woodlands round her little house with a magic light that fingered through the trees like long dazzling golden wands, filling the first hours of the new day with gentle brilliance, a shining that seemed to bring with it a new sense of hope, which in its turn brought fortitude and restored the confidence of those whose belief had wavered during the troubled hours of the night. But Poppy’s calm and confidence was finally restored before the rise of the sun. It came back to her when once again she found herself taking the diary from the little mahogany sewing box beside her chair, and when she had finished reading it she knew without a doubt that she would prevail.

  ‘At least at night all planes are grey.�
�� Anthony smiled as he walked Poppy towards what in daylight would have been a bright yellow aircraft. ‘I just wish we could have got you something a little nippier. A little more up to date.’

  ‘I’m actually happier with Tiger Tim, sir,’ Poppy replied, doing up her flying jacket and checking the straps on her parachute. ‘I don’t suppose my pickup will have had time to put on something as sensible as a parachute?’

  ‘Doubt it very much, Poppy. But then we hope you won’t have reason to need parachutes.’

  ‘Not with me driving, sir,’ Poppy grinned. ‘Particularly at the heights I intend to travel. Wouldn’t have time to open.’

  The ground crew, having finished their last preflight checks, legged the pilot on to the wing and stood ready to spin the engine into life.

  ‘Good luck!’ Anthony called. ‘Safe home!’

  ‘Mine’s a brandy!’ Poppy called back. ‘As in large!’

  Then she was off, speeding down the runway, taking off perfectly and disappearing into the darkness of the skies above them.

  She flew over South Foreland, north of Dover, and thence just south of Ostend where she understood the defences were more suspect. Her information was perfectly correct since over the Belgian coastline her plane did not come under fire once. In fact she had a completely clear passage as far south as Ypres where she experienced her first flak. At once she dropped to an even lower altitude than she had been keeping, flying now at two hundred and fifty feet while zigzagging across the night sky, until crossing the border of Belgium and France she turned her little plane north of Lille to head due southwest across Picardy, again to fly unmolested south of Amiens and thence to her destination east of Rouen.

  She had expected to meet more flak around Amiens, but it appeared no one had either spotted or heard her tiny craft as it battled across the night sky. She was now back at her proper cruising level, the plane was flying perfectly, and her time was spot on. Poppy took several deep breaths and then plotted the rest of her course, estimating that she had twenty-five minutes’ flying time left before touching down in a mown field eight miles east of Dumeaux, a field that would be temporarily lit by a flare the moment those waiting heard the sound of her aircraft.

  One minute ahead of schedule Poppy began her descent, aiming only for a map reference, unable to see anything but darkness down below ahead of her. Fifteen seconds later the field was suddenly lit by the vivid glaring light of a flare, allowing Poppy to see the strip that had been prepared and to make a vital life-saving last minute adjustment to her approach, an approach that otherwise would have had her crash straight into a huge oak tree that stood slap bang in the middle of the field.

  ‘Nobody thought to mention the blasted tree, of course,’ she muttered through clenched teeth, as the wheels below her touched down and the plane took a violent upward bounce, owing to the rough terrain.

  Holding level and steady, Poppy endured three more hops of diminishing proportions before the aircraft had in her estimation properly landed, whereupon in line with her orders she kept travelling at speed towards the end of the allotted runway, before throttling back enough to allow her to swing the plane round one hundred and eighty degrees ready for immediate take-off. Again in line with her orders, she began to taxi back along the field, intending to hit the throttle a hundred yards from her turning point.

  At first she thought there was no one out there, but then, after thirty yards of taxiing, she saw a figure break cover and begin to run as fast as possible towards the side of the plane. The person was about fifty yards from the Tiger Moth, which would allow just about enough time to grab hold of the rope they had left tied on the struts of the right hand wing for this very purpose, and haul themselves up and on board in one neat but demanding move.

  ‘I hope whoever it is, is fit,’ Poppy remarked to the plane, watching her land speed. ‘Because they’re only going to have one crack at it.’

  Looking over the side of her cockpit, Poppy could see her passenger, dressed in a flying suit, a helmet already on and buckled tight, grabbing for the trailing rope.

  ‘Come on!’ Poppy yelled over the noise of the engine. ‘Grab it! Grab it and pull!’

  Her passenger could not possibly have heard in the mayhem, but now the flying-suited figure had grabbed the rope and to Poppy’s delight and relief had pulled themselves expertly on to the wing and then equally expertly into the seat in the open cockpit in front of Poppy.

  ‘Well done!’ Poppy screamed. ‘Now hold tight!’

  Giving the plane full throttle, Poppy turned her full concentration to getting them back airborne. As the plane accelerated down the field, she heard the first shots, and saw the flashes from the muzzles of some of the guns now trained on them. A bullet crashed through the fuselage in front of her, followed seconds later by another that tore through the fabric just behind her seat, but the plane was still stable and accelerating fast.

  The only trouble was they seemed to be running out of runway.

  Poppy tried her best to make out how much field she had left but with the flare having long since died it was sheer guesswork. If she had done her job properly she knew she should have about fifty yards to spare before she needed to be wheels off the ground, yet at the back of her mind she suspected that because she had been concentrating so hard on getting her passenger on board she might have taken her eye off the ball for just a little too long, hitting the throttle five seconds later perhaps than she should have done, and thus sacrificing those precious fifty yards.

  She was right. Those fifty yards had gone.

  Yet somehow, miraculously, thanks probably to the little extra purchase Poppy had on the joystick as she went for lift-off, the Tiger Moth was off the ground and up in the air, although if Poppy could have seen by how little its wheels missed first the huge hedge at the end of the field and then the roof of the enormous barn over which it had to climb she might possibly have fainted. None the less they were airborne and flying, Poppy wheeling hard right at once to try to disconcert the gunmen on the ground who were still determined to bring the little aircraft down. The Resistance were playing their usual brave role, staying in place to shoot it out with the Germans rather than fleeing to safety once the plane was in the air and their job done, an heroic act that by taking out four of the ten German guns without doubt saved Poppy and her passenger from a fatal hit.

  In another half a minute they were both out of range and out of sight, banking in the opposite direction now before climbing up high into the night sky. Below them the little band of Resistance fighters stole away in their own darkness, with only one injury and that a nowhere near fatal one. They left behind them five dead Germans and three wounded ones, after a small valiant battle of great importance won by yet more unsung heroes.

  Poppy knew she would not have enough fuel to return the way she had come, so instead of flying northeast she turned the biplane north to head for the Dieppe coastline, an area she knew to be well defended but one that offered the shortest run home, directly over the Channel and Beachy Head where as long as they didn’t hit any trouble she intended to land somewhere in the Downs behind the cliffs. Unfortunately they flew almost straight into trouble.

  It happened well before they reached Dieppe. After half an hour of uninterrupted flight the sky was suddenly ablaze with the flak of anti-aircraft fire. Looking around her, Poppy at once realised it was not directed at them at all, but at a squadron of bombers to the east of them, a dozen huge aircraft lit up by the brilliance of the ack-ack and silhouetted against the night sky like a school of enormous flying whales. They were flying alone with no fighter escort, obviously on the home run after a mission. Even as she was watching one of the bombers took a direct hit and began to spiral out of control spinning slowly and inevitably to a fatal crash below.

  The next thing they knew the sky was full of German fighters, homing in on the squadron for what looked like a duck shoot. As yet it seemed no one had spotted the tiny biplane on the very outskirts of the actio
n as Poppy tried to hold a steady course north, and because so far they were both safe and unnoticed Poppy decided to lose height, to drop down as far as it was safe to do so, hoping to be able to hide away in the darkness as well as the cloud cover below. But then, in the mirror she had fixed in her cockpit, she saw the flare of guns behind her, guns aimed right at the Tiger Moth.

  Bullets tore and screamed past her, some – how many Poppy had no idea – tearing into the lower wing on the starboard side. Knowing that one moment more of hesitation would spell death, Poppy dipped the nose of the aircraft, killed the engine and dropped it straight into what she hoped would look like a fatal spin.

  It seemed to work since the pilot of the Messerschmitt, having circled to come back and finish the job, must have seen what he thought was a death hit as the biplane spun apparently out of control to disappear into the clouds below, for instead of pursuing his victim to make sure of a strike he banked hard and fast to join the rest of his comrades in attacking the bombers.

  There was no time to scream. Whatever Poppy’s passenger was thinking, they certainly did not seem to be panicking. Not that Poppy had any free time to study the habits of her fellow traveller – but she could see a pair of gloved hands gripping the edge of the cockpit as the Tiger Moth spun deliriously earthwards.

  ‘Traffy,’ Poppy muttered to herself. ‘All I can say to you at this moment, Traffy, is that you had better have done your stuff – and you too, Bruce!’

  If the engine didn’t kick back into life at once they were dead. Poppy knew that, but then she also knew that if she had not killed the engine and deliberately spun the plane they would both be dead anyway, or if not dead as yet, burning slowly and horribly as the biplane spun faster and faster out of control.