After a moment’s thought Franz replied in a low voice, “The weapon of unquestioning obedience to a guiding mind.”
By this time they had reached the solid brick wall which encircled the hangars and Rudi forbade any more talking. They skirted the high wall, which was further strengthened by a barbed-wire entanglement, and came to the big gates. There were two sentries here, but they were half-asleep on their feet, their bayonets held slackly in their cold, red hands—they were raw-boned country lads, and very young, and their long black coats hung upon their undeveloped bodies like sacks. They came to attention as the three officers approached, and one of them moved forward, but Rudi was a well-known figure and so was Max … the third figure, with his collar turned up round his ears, must be one of the other officers of course.…
Rudi took the salute and passed in (closely followed by his companions). He swung lightly across the puddled road, turned the corner of a hangar and bore straight out across the field without a moment’s hesitation. Franz was aware of large buildings on his right—though they were merely a blur of darker grey in the light grey mist—and then he felt the softness of grass beneath his feet and knew that they were on the flying field. The dank mist enfolded them so closely that they might have been alone in a world of mist for all that Franz could see, and in spite of his nervous excitement he found himself wondering how Rudi knew so confidently what direction to take. He decided that it must be that strange instinct which we call a sense of direction which is born in some men—just as it is born in the consciousness of a homing pigeon—and without which no man could ever become a first-class pilot.
Rudi strode on, and suddenly the huge black shape of a Heinkel Bomber loomed up before them. There were shaded lights about her and a small group of mechanics were at work upon her undercarriage.
“What’s this?” Rudi inquired in a sharp tone. “What’s this, Haller? Is the Heinkel not ready for me?”
The head mechanic turned and saluted. “There is one small adjustment necessary,” he declared. “If the Herr Officer will give me ten minutes—that is all.”
“Ten minutes!” echoed Rudi indignantly. “Ten minutes—you should have had her ready. You knew the hour. What have you been doing? Do you think I have all day before me? Let me see what’s wrong.…”
While Rudi was engaged in harrying the mechanics and examining the adjustments which were being made, Max had found the parachutes and was fixing his harness securely. Franz took his, but he was clumsy with the unfamiliar gear, and he was still struggling with it when the Commandant appeared out of the surrounding mist. He was a short squat man with a red face and somewhat bleary blue eyes which surveyed the world in a mistrustful manner from beneath his shaggy brows.
“What’s wrong?” he inquired irritably. “Why are you not ready to start … and who the devil is this officer? I have not seen him before.”
“I am Fritz Herschel,” said Franz, and he saluted smartly.
The Commandant looked at him distastefully and did not trouble to return the salute. “Explain,” he said to Rudi. “Where are Schwartz and Leiss? Who is this man?”
“Schwartz is ill, Herr Commandant,” replied Rudi promptly. “He was taken ill last night—and Leiss also. It is thought that they are suffering from some form of poisoning.”
“Why was I not informed?”
“The Herr Commandant was out last night,” replied Rudi in a gentle tone.
“Hmph,” snorted the Commandant. “Yes, I was out. It is not often that I take a few hours off duty and, when I do, something always goes wrong. Continue your explanation.”
“Yes, Herr Commandant; this officer has been detailed to take the place of Schwartz; he is an expert in photography—or so I was informed. I have never seen him before.”
“Your papers!” barked the Commandant. He was in a particularly ugly mood for he had been at a convivial party the night before and was suffering from reaction. In addition to his physical discomfort he was enduring mental strain, for he disapproved of these long reconnaissance flights over enemy territory and was obliged to dissemble his disapproval. The Herr Commandant was of the opinion that these flights were foolish and wasteful. They wasted men—two of his best pilots had failed to return—and they wasted machines, and they used up precious fuel. He would not have minded so much if the machines had been employed in their proper manner … there was some sense in dropping bombs.
The officer who had called himself Fritz Herschel produced the papers which proved his identity, and there was a little silence while the Commandant examined them.
“They are in order,” he declared, looking up, and then he added in an unpleasant tone, “Lieutenant Fritz Herschel seems to be having some difficulty with his parachute harness.”
Franz felt that every eye in the little group was fixed upon him. His mouth was so dry that he could not speak.
“It is strange,” continued the Commandant, “it is very strange, is it not, that an officer who is an expert in air photography should be unfamiliar with the harness of a parachute?”
Nobody said a word.
“Do you find it strange?” asked the Commandant turning to Rudi.
“Very strange,” agreed Rudi uncomfortably.
Max swung round and seized the straps of the harness. “Heavens!” he exclaimed in an irritated voice, “Heavens, one would think you had never seen a parachute before! It is this way … and the buckle fastens so,” he added, pulling and tugging and scolding roughly at Franz.
His rudeness had the desired effect in turning the attention of the Herr Commandant to himself.
“Hullo! Our good Lieutenant Finkel seems out of sorts this morning!” he declared with a grim smile.
“Who would not be?” inquired Max. “It is bad enough to have to fasten one’s own harness on a cold morning when one’s hands are chilled and slippery with rain …”
The Commandant glared at him. “That is enough. It is even a little too much … however, I shall let it pass. What are you waiting for? The machine is ready and you are fourteen minutes late.”
“I am ready,” said Rudi simply.
“Be off, then. You have your orders. You are aware of the penalty if any bombs are dropped upon non-military objectives,” growled the Commandant. He was obliged to give this warning to every pilot that left the field, and to give it in person but it was a duty which went against the grain.
“Yes, Herr Commandant,” said Rudi.
“And you are aware that the penalty is the same if the bomb is dropped by mistake?”
“Yes, Herr Commandant,” said Rudi again.
“Be off, then.”
The three young men climbed into the machine. Rudi settled himself in the pilot’s seat and checked over the controls quickly and capably. Then suddenly the buzz of the engine rose to a roar and the machine quivered and moved beneath them as though it had life … and they were off. They taxied across the field and rose … and bumped … and rose again, and the next moment they were soaring smoothly in the air and the grey mist was below them.
“So,” said Rudi. “So … you are safe now, Franz. It was a bad moment that, for the Herr Commandant was peevish and a peevish man is hard to deal with.”
“Where was the danger?” inquired Max with a chuckle. “The Herr Commandant could do nothing … he was feeling sick and it pleased him to make a fuss. I was not alarmed for I knew that the papers were in good order … Wilhelm had seen to that.”
“It frightens me,” declared Rudi, swinging the huge bomber sideways in a sickening roll. “It terrifies me. The only time I am happy is when I am in the air. I believe I am losing my nerve,” he added, swooping through a cloud …
Chapter Eleven
Franz had not spoken at all for his tongue was still dry and leathery. It might be (as Rudi said) that he was now safe … but he did not feel safe. All around them was mist, and the motors filled his ears with a quivering roar. He had flown before, of course, but that was in a passenger plane—
a large air liner—and it had felt as safe as a bus in comparison with the Heinkel. Franz had the feeling of tremendous power hurtling him through the air, and there was a horrible singing in his ears. He was suspended in space between heaven and earth, and he was also suspended between the past and the future. The past was behind him—months of strain and peril—and the future was unknown. Between the present and that unknown future there was an ordeal from which he shrank—an ordeal the very thought of which made his blood run cold.
The League to which Franz belonged had various ways of smuggling its members out of the country, some of them had been passed into neutral countries with faked passports, others had been hidden in packing cases and sent by ship, but neither of these methods was any use in the case of Franz for it had been decided to send him to Britain. He had been sent for by the Chief—the master mind who directed all the League’s activities—and had had a long and very memorable interview with him. Franz had been amazed at this man’s intellect, his capacity and acumen were much above the ordinary level. He had pointed out to Franz that, although his work in Germany was now finished there was a possibility that he could still be of use. Money was what the League needed and the cooperation of others who were working for the same end—the overthrow of the Nazi régime. The Chief had asked Franz point-blank whether he thought that these things could be found in Britain and Franz had replied very thoughtfully that it was possible that they might be found there.
“Well, go and see what you can do,” said the Chief—and the interview was over.
The wheels of the League had turned smoothly and rapidly and here was Franz on his way to Britain in one of Germany’s newest bombing planes. He was to make a parachute landing in some deserted spot and after that he was to shift for himself. The thing had sounded simple—much simpler than being sealed up in a crate and lowered into the hold of a ship—and Rudi and Max had assured him that there was no difficulty about it and very little danger. Franz had never attempted such a thing before, but every airman had to practise parachute descents and every airman had to make a first attempt—there was no way of learning to do it except by doing it. Rudi and Max had both been very encouraging. Rudi declared that he had lost count of the number of times he had descended to earth in this manner, and that even when he was a novice he had never experienced any discomfort. Max said that he had made twelve descents—he had broken his collar bone on one occasion but that was because he had been clumsy; there was no danger if you remembered to do what you were told. Franz had listened carefully to all this, and he had assured himself that, if others could do it, so could he—it had seemed a comparatively easy thing to do after so many months of danger—but, now that the ordeal was approaching, it seemed neither simple nor easy and Franz began to wonder whether he would ever be able to climb out of the cockpit on to the slippery-looking wing … and let go.
He decided very wisely not to think about it until the time came. He would think ahead, he would try to envisage the future which lay beyond; but somehow or other he found it difficult to do—in fact he could not make himself believe that there was any future at all. He decided that he did not mind very much what happened to him. He had nothing to look forward to, and nothing to live for. The love of life was at low ebb in Franz—or so he thought—but it is difficult for anyone to know how much he clings to life until life seems to be slipping from his grasp. Perhaps there was no future for him, thought Franz; perhaps this was the end; perhaps the parachute would refuse to open.…
Franz pulled himself together and fixed his mind firmly. He would make the descent and would find himself in England—or possibly in Scotland—somewhere in Britain, anyhow; and (if Rudi had been able to manage it) he would find himself in a deserted spot where he would be able to get rid of his parachute without being seen. After that he would make his way to the nearest town and try to get work, so that he could keep body and soul together until he had time to look round. He must not go near Fernacres, of course, nor must he go back to London where he might meet people he knew. He must depend entirely upon himself … but, of course, Rudi might not be able to drop him in a deserted spot, and someone might see his descent and be waiting for him when he reached the ground. In that case Franz was aware that he would probably spend the remainder of the war in a British Prison Camp. There was a third possibility to be envisaged, Rudi might not be able to reach Britain without being seen and intercepted by British Fighter machines. The Heinkel might be engaged in an action and driven off or shot down in the sea.
These were the things that might happen, thought Franz, but he could not see them happening. The future was an absolute blank … he could see nothing beyond that drop from the clouds which was coming nearer every moment.
They were flying low now; the mist had thinned; and looking down Franz saw the grey choppy waters of the North Sea. The sea looked unfamiliar seen like this—it looked as if the waters had been painted on a flat surface. Suddenly they flew into a thick bank of fog and almost immediately the machine began to climb; again Franz felt that strange pressure on his back as if the back of his seat were pushing him forwards and upwards. They continued to climb for so long that it seemed to him they must be half-way to the moon, it seemed to him that he would never return to the earth he knew. Perhaps something had happened to the machine, perhaps it was out of control …
“We’re climbing,” he said to Max in a low voice.
“Yes, pretty steeply,” Max agreed. “We shall probably go very high before we reach the British coast so that we shall not be spotted. You need not worry,” he added cheerfully, “I never worry when I am with Rudi—he knows what he’s doing all right.”
“Do you ever worry, Max?”
“Not often,” replied Max with a chuckle. “There is no use worrying if you are an observer, but sometimes when I am with some other pilot I do not feel quite so happy. That’s all.”
Now they were out of the fog-bank into pale, watery sunshine, and below them the fog-bank lay thick. It was so thick that it seemed solid—almost as if one could land upon it, Franz thought.
Max had been keeping a good look-out, and now he called to Rudi that he had seen a plane—it was a fighter, and it was coming from the west … Rudi swung round in a steep bank and continued in a northerly direction. There were so many clouds in the sky that he was not very worried.
“Just as well to be careful,” he said. “We do not want to spend the whole war in a British prison. Bread and water and flogging is not my idea of bliss.”
Franz objected to this. He was pretty certain that the British Prison Camps were conducted in a proper manner, and was ready to bet that the food would be ample, for he had pleasant recollections of English fare. A lively argument ensued. Rudi declared that he was willing to take the bet, but added that the point could never be settled unless, of course, one of them were unlucky enough to prove it for himself.
He had hardly spoken when another plane appeared suddenly out of a cloud. Rudi put the Heinkel into a steep dive and they roared down towards the fog bank which still shrouded the sea. Franz shut his eyes and gripped the edge of his seat, expecting every moment to feel the cold water splashing round him. They plunged into the fog, and immediately Rudi flattened out and changed direction and they were speeding on … and on.
Perhaps Max guessed that the manoeuvre had been a pretty stiff trial to Franz, and that a little pleasant conversation might help to restore his confidence.
“What will you do, Franz?” he asked suddenly. “You have friends in England, of course.”
“Yes, but I can’t go there. It would put them in a very awkward position, wouldn’t it?”
“If they are real friends …” began Max, and then he hesitated. “No, perhaps not,” he said. He was silent for a few moments and then he said softly, “You think a lot, don’t you, Franz? I liked what you said about the ‘sharp weapon.’ I would like to know what you think about something else, but I don’t want Rudi to hear. Rudi thinks of the one
thing only, the overthrow of the Nazi rulers, and he does not care how it is accomplished. Sometimes I cannot help wondering whether it is right to do evil so that good may come.”
Franz could not answer that—“Go on, Max,” he said.
“We are living double lives,” said Max, putting his lips close to his friend’s ear. “With one hand we are giving the Hitler salute and with the other we are preparing his downfall … We are saying, ‘Yes, Herr Commandant’ and ‘No, Herr Commandant’ like good little boys, and all the time we are looking forward to the day of reckoning. Is that right, Franz?”
“No,” said Franz sadly.
“Is that, perhaps, the other edge of the sharp weapon?”
“Perhaps,” said Franz doubtfully. “… it is, at any rate, their own weapon turned against them.”
“Himmel!” exclaimed Max, “Himmel, the thing gets on my nerves. It is like—like walking on a tight-rope stretched above an abyss!”
“Yes,” said Franz softly. “Yes, it is like that.”
“It was different for you,” Max continued. “You were never an officer of the Dritte Reich—not a real officer. Once or twice you have passed yourself as an officer but that is different. I am two men,” added Max with a sigh. “I am an officer in two opposing camps … I do not like it.”
Franz would not have liked it either so he could offer very little comfort to Max.
All this time the Heinkel had been speeding north, but now Rudi swung west amongst billowy clouds which looked like a flock of fluffy white sheep. There were clouds all round them and a film of cloud below, and this seemed to be moving in a different direction. Franz looked over the side and suddenly, through a hole in the cloud, he saw land. He realized then that his ordeal was very near. In a few minutes—at any moment now—Rudi would signal to him to go, and he would have to climb out of the cockpit …
The cockpit had seemed a perilous place but now it seemed secure—it seemed like home to Franz, so familiar had it become—and he wondered whether he would be able to leave it when the time came, whether his limbs would obey his brain. He went over the instructions which Rudi had made him repeat so often. Yes, he knew exactly what to do, but would he be able to do it?
The English Air Page 25
