Adams nodded. “Yes. I was in the Bombay, the big one that came in last.”
“Did you see me wavin’?”
“Yes. We all saw you. I waved back, as a matter of fact.”
Maisie was pleased and was going to say so when the blackout curtain parted and two airmen appeared. One was a thinly built L.A.C., an old sweat with a long, dismal face and a pointed nose. He was wearing a crumpled rag of a field service cap and a camouflaged ground-sheet as protection against the drizzle. His companion was a young A.C.2, very new-looking in his high-buttoned greatcoat. The strap of his gas-mask, running down from somewhere alongside his neck, appeared to be half-strangling him.
The A.C.2 was the first to notice the squadron-leader. He halted dead in his tracks like a rabbit seeing a stoat. The old sweat gave him a push.
“G’wan,” he hissed. “This isn’t Padgate. And it ain’t out of bounds to airmen. Watcha afraid of ... ?”
Then he saw Adams was looking at him and he made a vague up-and-down motion of his right hand. An enemy, wishing to discredit him, might have said it was a compromise salute.
“Evening, sir. Grim night, sir,”
“Good evening, McTyre,” Adams said, his blue eyes twinkling behind his spectacles.
With another surreptitious push McTyre sent the A.C.2 stumbling across the room to a table in the far comer. Muttering his contempt of fireballers who toady to authority, he pulled off his wet ground-sheet, revealing a uniform almost as greasy as his cap. His gas-mask, black with oil, was slung over his left shoulder in officer fashion, and the top button of his tunic was open, revealing a black shoe-lace of tie struggling to hold together the frayed remains of a service shirt. Adams eyed him in fascination, thinking what unholy joy his appearance would bring to the S.W.O.
Still muttering, the old sweat dropped into a chair. Beside him the erk sat stiffly upright, his young, round face emerging hot and flushed from his buttoned-up collar. His eyes were glued on Adams.
Maisie had all the snobbishness of her kind for other ranks. “Did they all come in today as well?”
“Some of them,” Adams said non-committally. Seeing she was making no move to serve them, he threw a half-crown on the counter.
“Take them a couple of beers, will you?” he said casually.
Maisie’s eyes opened wide. “My, is that the way you treat your blokes? Do you tuck ’em in bed as well?”
She filled two glasses and went over to the airmen. Adams drained his glass and picked up his gloves from the counter. “See you later,” he said as she came back. “And thank you again for your help.”
Maisie showed her disappointment. “Are you goin’ already? When’s your wife coming?”
“Monday, I hope. I’m ’phoning her tonight and will drop in tomorrow to let you know.”
Seeing the young A.C.2 was rising, obviously trying to pluck up the courage to thank him, Adams moved hastily to the blackout curtain. “Cheerio, and thank you again.”
' “Cheerio,” Maisie sighed. She watched him go out, then turned to the two airmen. She gave a sarcastic laugh.
“No wonder you joined the Air Force!”
McTyre scowled, picked up his beer, and slouched forward. “Don’t get any wrong ideas about us, kid. You know who we are?”
Maisie eyed him with both scorn and curiosity. “Haven’t a clue.”
“We’re 633 Squadron. That’s who we are.”
“Names and numbers mean nothing to me,” Maisie sniffed, inwardly impressed.
McTyre’s face assumed the expression old sweats always assume before erks and civilians: a mixture of cynicism, bitterness and contempt.
“You ain’t heard of 633? What’s the matter with you? Ain’t you English?”
“Don’t get fresh with me,” Maisie snapped.
The young A.C.2 wandered to the bar. His eyes had not yet recovered from his being treated to a beer by a squadron-leader. McTyre jerked a grimy thumb at him.
“Just posted to us. Don’t know the time yet.”
“I ain’t surprised, with that clock of yours floating around in front of him,” Maisie threw back. “What’ve you come to Sutton Craddock for, anyway?”
McTyre’s face took on a secretive expression. He leaned forward. “Special job, kid. Big stuff. Must be, or they wouldn’t have sent us.”
“You ain’t half got an opinion of yourself, haven’t you? What’s so wonderful about your squadron?” McTyre’s voice held all the bitterness of the unsung hero. “If you read th’ papers, you’d know. I keep telling you—there ain’t a squadron in Blighty like ours.” He screwed up his long face for inspiration. It came—brilliantly. “We’re like . . . we’re like the Guards in the Army, kid. The best! Ain’t you heard of Grenville’s raids on Rotterdam? Or on Emden and Brest? What’s the matter with you...?”
Maìsie’s eyes had suddenly rounded. “Did you say Grenville? Roy Grenville?”
“That’s right,” McTyre said, his expression triumphant now. “Roy Grenville. He’s our Squadron Commander. See what I mean now, kid?”
3
Twelve hours later a small Norwegian fishing-boat drew alongside a jetty in a northern Scottish port. Except for a car, standing with dimmed lights, and two waiting men, the jetty was deserted. The boat’s diesel engine went silent as she drifted slowly in, the wind soughing through her riggings. The two waiting men seized her mooring ropes, and a few seconds later the boat was firmly anchored to the quayside.
The two men on the jetty hurried back to their car, one settling behind the wheel, the other taking his seat in the back. The engine started up impatiently. A few' seconds passed, then a man wearing a dark-blue fisherman’s jersey leapt up from the boat and ran towards them. He was no sooner in the car than it pulled away, throwing him back into his seat. He felt his hand gripped tightly.
“Hello, my boy. How did it go this time?”
“Very well, sir.” The newcomer had a faint Norwegian accent.
“No trouble?”
“No, sir. Nothing.”
The darkness was giving way to the grey of the dawn, and both men could see the other’s features. The Norwegian was a man in his late twenties, tall and broad, with an open, pleasant face and a shock of yellow hair. His questioner was an elderly man of soldierly appearance with iron-grey hair and a trim moustache. The epaulettes on his khaki greatcoat showed him to be a Brigadier.
He had a clipped, controlled voice. “Any more luck?” he asked quietly.
“Yes. A little more, anyway.”
The Brigadier’s hand gripped the younger man’s arm. “Well done. We’ve had a bad week, wondering how things were going.” He paused, then went on: “How are you feeling after the trip? Would you like a rest before the interrogation? We’re all pretty keen to get started, of course, but I can arrange a rest if you need one.” “No; I’m all right, sir. Where are we going now?” “We’ve got a place in the country—it’s only fifteen minutes from here. Anyway, you can have a long rest tomorrow. In fact, you should have a fairly easy time for the next two or three weeks. This is what we have laid on for you....”
The Brigadier spoke for over ten minutes. “You’ll leave by train in two days’ time,” he finished. “When you get to Highgate, the Air Force will take you over. We’ve put an Air Commodore in the know, a chap called Davies, and he’ll take you to the squadron’s new base at Sutton Craddock. Once there, your job is to prevent curiosity. That could be a nuisance, so we’ve arranged for you to go as a naval lieutenant. The story will be circulated that you’ve been sent by the Admiralty as a liaison officer—to study Air Force procedure, and also to tip off the squadron about enemy naval movements and so on. Most bomber squadrons get one sooner or later, and we think it will cover you up nicely. Of course, you’ll get more detailed instructions before you go, but is everything clear so far?” “Quite clear. What squadron is it, sir?”
The Brigadier’s voice expressed his satisfaction. “We’ve done well for you there, although Bomber Co
mmand didn’t let them go without a fight. We’ve got 633 Squadron—Roy Grenville’s boys. As you probably know they are one of Bomber Command’s crack squadrons.” His tone grew serious again. “They need to be, from what we hear.”
The Norwegian was looking puzzled. “But Grenville’s squadron uses Bostons, doesn’t it? Surely they cannot carry heavy enough bombs for this job? And you say Sutton Craddock is down in North Yorkshire. Shouldn’t they use a base in Scotland to cut down the range?”
Again the Brigadier lowered his voice. “Jerry might start getting suspicious if a new light bomber squadron moved up into Scotland. He’ll be wondering about 633, of course, but for the very reason you mention he won’t guess its purpose.”
The doubt was still in the Norwegian’s eyes. “But I still do not understand, sir. How can they do this job in Bostons?”
“They won’t have to,” the Brigadier told him. “There’s something very special coming along. Don’t worry—they’ll have the planes to get there.”
* * *
Back at Sutton Craddock that morning all the orderly disorder of a squadron on the move was at its height. An endless convoy of lorries was bringing in the stores. Thousands of gallons of high-octane fuel were being poured into the petrol dump; hundreds of tons of equipment was being stacked into the workshops, the hangars, and the Nissen huts. The bomb-store at the far end of the airfield was being filled with 2,000-lb. A.P.’s, 1,000-lb. and 500-lb. M.C.’s, 250-lb. incendiaries, fragmentation bombs, S.C.L’s, 4-lb. incendiaries, and dozens of different types of fuses and detonators. In the station armoury were being stored the spare Browning guns, the gun-sights, the belt-filling machines, the Mk. IX bomb-sights, the spare bomb-carriers, the bomb-pistols: all the hundred and one ancillaries that go with the weapons of a modem squadron.
In the workshops men toiled, heaved and swore. Mechanics complained about their tool kits, lost in transit. Sweating N.C.O.’s dashed from officers to men and from men back to officers again. As fast as stores were removed, fresh piles took their places as the lorries rolled in. New postings from training units wandered rain-soaked and glassy-eyed through the chaos, too dazed to palpitate at the yells and curses from redfaced N.C.O.’s.
Everywhere it was the same. The Orderly Room looked as if a bomb had burst slap in the middle of the floor. Requisition forms, leave passes, ration slips: all the bumph so dear to Sergeant Whitton’s heart was strewn in unbalanced heaps on desks, chairs and cupboards, and littered over the floor. Typewriters lay at odd, dejected angles, clearly without hope of being used again. Men moved like nightmare figures, moving paper from A to B, wincing as another pile thudded on A again.
Panics came thick and fast. The Station Equipment Officer found a packing-case of men’s underpants was incredibly filled with Bloomers Blue, Style 7, a grave mutation indeed. The Armament Officer found his harmonizing gear a shattered mess of twisted tubes and pulverized glass. The Maintenance Officer found that one of his bowsers had been routed to Scotland; and the Signals Officer found his dachshund pup, Hans, was missing. For safety Hans had been put in the care of three wireless mechanics who were bringing the Signals Van to the airfield. A pub had proved his downfall. While the three airmen were inside, having a hasty pint, Hans had spied a comely bitch pattering prettily down the pavement outside. With a yelp and a howl Hans had gone out of the window and hotfoot down the street after her. Result—Hans A.W.O.L., and sparks twittering round the Signal Officer’s lips.
But at last order began to emerge. The example was set by the Station Disciplinary Officer, W/O Bertram (known from the C.O. down to the lowest erk as Bert the Bastard). After allotting his hundreds of airmen their billets, he set about putting an end to this nonsense. Superbly indifferent to the chaos raging around him he lowered his massive frame down on a packing-case and made out his first duty roster. The sight of those D.R.O.’s was salutary. The guard-room rallied and made its first kill—an A.C.l wearing a pair of civilian shoes. The Maintenance Officer contacted his bowser heading for the Western Isles, and said a few succinct words to its driver. Hans was discovered by an M.P. howling outside a house of low repute and brought back a sadder and wiser pup. The Intelligence and Navigation Officers found their charts and maps and began getting their offices in order. The Squadron Office, the Flight Offices, the Messes, the Cook House, the Crew Rooms: all started receiving their equipment at last. The familiar yellow gas detectors began appearing in their usual places, at the entrance to the E.T. rooms and the latrines....
In short, 633 Squadron was rapidly becoming itself again.
4
The station wagon drove into the gates of Sutton Craddock and halted. The M.P. on duty peered in, then stiffened to attention. A sergeant, already alerted, came out of the guard-house at the double, his boots clattering on the tarmac road. He skidded to a halt and saluted.
The driver, a pretty W.A.A.F. with a supercilious nose, leaned her forage cap and curls from the side window. “Station Headquarters—the C.O.’s office, please.”
The sergeant pointed along the road to a long, low brick building on the left. “Second door, Miss, and take the first corridor to the right... .” Before he could finish the car shot away from him. He thought ponderously, then threw a discreet salute after it.
The Station Commander’s office that morning was not its usual self. The rooms on either side of it had been emptied for the occasion and a security guard posted in the corridor and on the road outside the window, both men with instructions to look as inconspicuous as possible.
Barrett, the Station C.O., was standing restlessly at the window. Barrett was a heavily built man of forty-two, with thinning hair, rather melancholy brown eyes, and a moustache large enough to earn him the nickname of Wally from his men. He was a South African by birth, his parents having settled in England during his early teens. He had joined the R.A.F. as a regular, and an apprenticeship at Halton had been followed by a prewar tour in both India and the Middle East. Although not imaginative, he was efficient, conscientious, and popular with his men. His ribbons included the A.F.C., and the D.F.C., the latter medal having been won over Kiel in the early days of the war when he had collected a chest wound that had grounded him for a long time. Because of it he was still under orders to fly as little as possible—an order that irked him, for he was a very keen pilot.
As he stood at the window the distant roar of engines as a Boston was run up for testing came to him. Queer business, this posting, he reflected. Too much secrecy for his liking. Anyway, maybe something would come out of the bag today. He certainly hoped so.
The station wagon pulled up outside with a squeal of brakes, Barrett gave it one look, then strode quickly to the door, motioning the sentry towards him.
“They’re coming now,” he said gruffly. “Don’t let ’em see you’re on guard. But keep a close watch once they’re inside.”
He returned into his office and waited. A few seconds later he heard footsteps in the corridor, then a tap on the door.
Barrett knew the first of the two men who entered. It was Air Commodore Davies, an alert little man with a sharp, intelligent face and quick darting eyes. In certain moods he resembled a truculent cockrel. Temper or not, he was a man Barrett held in high esteem. He came forward now with characteristic quick strides, his hand outstretched. He had a sharp, somewhat high-pitched voice.
“Hello, Barrett. How’s everything going? Seeing daylight yet?”
“We’re nearly out of the wood, sir. We’re getting the kites air-tested today.”
“Good man. That’s fine. Now I want you to meet Lieutenant Bergman. Lieutenant Bergman: this is Wing Commander Barrett, 633 Squadron’s C.O.”
The Norwegian, tall and broad-shouldered in his naval uniform, stepped forward. Barrett took a look at his firm mouth and steady blue-grey eyes and decided he looked a good type. He held out his hand.
“Glad to meet you, Lieutenant.”
“I am very pleased to meet you, sir.”
Barre
tt noticed the foreign accent and wondered whether it had any connection with the conference to follow. He saw Davies looking at him.
“Where’s Grenville and your Intelligence Officer?”
“They’re both in the S.I.O.’s room, sir. I thought 19 there might be something you wanted to tell me before they came in. I can get ’em here in half a minute.”
Davies shook his head. “No; I don’t think there’s anything. Give them a call, will you?”
As Barrett spoke into his desk telephone, Bergman moved to the window, watching the airman who was sauntering up and down with the utmost unconcern before it. He caught Barrett’s eye as the C.O. put the receiver down.
“One of your security men, sir?”
Barrett looked disappointed. “Why, yes, he is, as a matter of fact.” He went resentfully to the window. “I told the damn fool to look as inconspicuous as possible.”
Davies’s bright eyes twinkled. “I shouldn’t worry too much, Barrett. Lieutenant Bergman has a nose for them. He needs to have, in his job.”
There was a tap on the door. “Come in,” Barrett shouted. Bergman turned with him, watching with interest.
One of the men who entered was Adams, his eyes curious behind his spectacles at the sight of the naval officer. Bergman examined him, then turned his gaze on his companion. This one, he knew, would be Grenville.
Roy Grenville was twenty-six, slightly over medium height and compact of build. The force of his personality struck Bergman at once, that indefinable magnetism that makes a man a natural leader. Yet there was nothing about his appearance to conform with the popular conception of the ace pilot: he wore his uniform correctly and well. The same self-discipline showed in his expression and movements, indicating that here was a man who, after subjecting his mind and body to a hundred perils, had learned all their tricks, and now had both under rigid control. He looked an intelligent man who was applying all the power of his mind to the business of war with a ruthless disregard to its effects on himself. Below his pilot’s brevet was an impressive row of ribbons, including the D.S.O. and D.F.C.
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