“I won’t say antin’,” Maisie promised. “Honest, I won’t. What did you raid?”
“Shipping off the Norwegian coast. An’ we gave ’em hell. Jimmie’ll tell you.”
Maisie threw a glance at the boy, who jerked his head nervously. “Did you hit anything?” she asked.
Gillibrand let out a laugh. “Did we hit anythin’ . . .! Hitler’s one flak ship short tonight, baby. It took a crack at us and put a hole in my starboard wing, so I turned on the heat. The pieces are still cornin’ down.”
Maisie’s black eyes were round and excited. “Was that you who came in with a big hole in one wing?” Gillibrand grinned. “You were watchin’, huh? Yeah, 69 that was me. And that wasn’t the only hole we got— Jimmie’ll tell you. This is how it happened, kid ..
When he had finished the story Maisie’s mouth was a round O. “Gee,” she managed. “Just imagine that!” Gillibrand waved a big hand. “Aw, that’s nothin’. I could tell you a hundred stories better than that. An’ maybe I will some time. . . . Hey, what’s the matter, kid? Where’re you going?”
Jimmie had suddenly stumbled off towards the door. Gillibrand jumped from his stool and followed him. He returned alone two minutes later, shaking his head.
“Funny kid—wouldn’t let me stay with him. Says he’ll come back when he feels better.”
“You shouldn’t let him drink so much,” Maisie said critically. “He’s only a kid, and doesn’t look very strong.”
Gillibrand frowned. “What can you do? He’s gotta learn. This is a tough game—you gotta be tough to keep in it.”
“You won’t toughen him up this way. I think this business this morning upset him. His eyes were like marbles when you were tellin’ me about it.”
The Canadian’s jaw suddenly tightened. “Now wait a minute! That kid ain’t afraid of anything, and don’t you forget it. He’s a good boy—see!”
“All right, all right,” Maisie said to pacify him. “Then he’s feeling queer because he missed a night’s sleep and has had beer on top of it. Missing sleep does affect some people that way.”
Gillibrand’s face cleared. “That’s different. That’s sensible.” He stared at Maisie, then grinned again. “You’re all right, kid. How about you and me havin’ a date one of these nights, huh?”
Maisie was surprised at her own caution. “Ain’t you got a wife or a girl friend?”
“I got a girl, sure. . . . Everybody’s got a girl. But she ain’t here, that’s the thing. She’s down in London.” Maisie tossed her head. “I’m not the sort who plays second fiddle.”
“You won’t be second fiddle, baby. Here you’ll be my very best girl. An’ I’ve got a car—we can have some nice long rides together. Won’t that be somethin’?”
Maisie jerked a sarcastic thumb at the wall. “You mean you had a car, don’t you?”
“Don’t worry; it’ll patch up.” Gillibrand lifted his glass. “Here’s to them long summer nights we’re goin’ to spend together, baby.”
“Evenings,” Maisie said cautiously.
Gillibrand grinned. “All right, honey. Here’s to the evenings.”
Jimmie returned at that moment. His white face had a clammy appearance and his hand was trembling as he picked up his glass. Gillibrand reached over and took it from him.
“Leave that belly-wash alone, kid. Have somethin’ to settle your stomach.” The Canadian turned to Maisie. “What’ve you got for him, honey? Somethin’ from under the counter, huh?”
Maisie half-filled a glass with brandy and slipped it to the boy. “That’ll make you feel better,” she said.
Jimmie thanked her and sipped at the neat spirit. The colour returned slowly to his cheeks. Maisie noticed the concern on the Canadian’s face as he watched the youngster.
“That’s better, kid?”
Jimmie nodded. “Yes, thanks. I don’t know what went wrong.... It must have been the car ride on top of the beer.”
“Yeah; that and the night’s sleep you missed. Aw, it can happen to anybody. But, you know, you ought to relax a bit. It ain’t good to be tensed up all the time.”
Jimmie flushed. “I’m not tensed up. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
There was a shrill edge to his voice. Gillibrand waved a hand in good-natured protest. “You don’t have to tell me there’s nothin’ wrong with you. I know that, don’t I? You’ve got me wrong. I’m advisin’ you to enjoy yourself more. You want to get yourself a girl.... Now there’s somethin’. Girls make you feel good, slacken off your nerves.” He looked at Maisie. “Don’t they, honey?”
“Do they? Don’t ask me.”
“ ’Course they do. An’ heck, think how a guy would feel if he’d never had a girl and got the chopper.
Why, he’d be up there, all bright an’ shiny, pluckin’ those strings and wishin’ like hell all the time he hadn’t missed out. It’s waste, kid, that’s what it is. Criminal waste.”
“Stop talkin’ rubbish,” Maisie snapped, afraid that the boy would either break down again or take offence.
Jimmie appeared to have recovered, however, for he gave a wan smile. “You’d better shut up or I’ll take Maisie out,” he muttered. “What’ll you have—another beer?”
Gillibrand, delighted with the boy’s show of spirit, was as fussy as a collie dog wagging its tail. “Attaboy! That’s better.” He grinned at Maisie. ‘Til have to watch him, hey, baby?”
“ ’Couse you’ll have to watch him,” Maisie said, winking encouragingly at the boy. “I like ’em quiet and well-behaved.”
The door latch clicked. Gillibrand turned around casually, then stiffened. Grenville was approaching the counter.
“Evenin’, skipper.”
Grenville nodded at him and Jimmie, then turned to Maisie. “I’d like to see Lieutenant Bergman and his sister. May I go through?”
Conscious of the authoritative ring in his voice, Maisie hurried along the counter. “Why, yes, sir. TÍiey’re in the sitting-room, I think.” She lifted the flap of the counter. “This way, sir. Through this door and across the hall. That door there, look, straight across....”
Grenville nodded his thanks and crossed the hall. Maisie closed the door and returned to the others, her eyes eager with curiosity. “Who was that? You called him skipper. He ain’t Grenville, is he?”
Gillibrand bit off a wad of gum and grinned. “That’s the guy, honey. An’ by the look of him he ain’t exactly forgiven me for what happened this morning.”
Maisie shook her dark head in awe. “That’s Roy Grenville—and he ain’t no older than my brother. Gee, can you believe it....?”
* * *
Grenville knew at once she was Bergman’s sister; there was a resemblance about her fine eyes and good forehead. She gave him a questioning smile from her armchair.
“You’ll be Miss Bergman,” Grenville said, moving from the doorway. “Lieutenant Bergman’s sister.”
Her low-toned voice with its attractive accent gave him his assurance before she finished speaking. “Yes; I am Hilde Bergman. Are you looking for my brother?” He nodded. “My name’s Grenville. I thought your brother was over here.”
An odd, indefinable expression came into her eyes as he gave his name. There was a perceptible pause before she spoke again.
“Good evening, Squadron-Leader. Please take off your coat. Is there anything I can order for you?” Grenville shook his head. “No, thank you. Not now. And if you don’t mind, I’ll keep my coat on. I shan’t be able to stay long.”
“Just as you wish, of course.” She motioned to the armchair opposite. “I’m sorry my brother is not here, but he left for the camp a quarter of an hour ago. He said there was a party he had to attend.” Her eyes examined his face. “I understood him to say you were giving it.”
In some indefinable way Grenville imagined her tone had changed slightly on hearing his name. He dropped into the chair, feeling his way cautiously.
“Yes; there is a bit of a party. That’s why I can’t
stay. But I had a few minutes and thought I’d like to run over and meet you, and then perhaps take your brother back with me.” He changed the subject. “Do you know this part of England at all?”
“No, I have never been in Yorkshire before.”
He motioned to the panelled walls. “Do you like this inn? Are you comfortable?”
“Oh yes. It is a lovely old place. I like it very much.” For the first few minutes Grenville felt ill at ease, and his analytical mind, incessantly self-critical, gave him a reason. Before the war he would have enjoyed the company of such a girl. Now he felt gauche, out of place. It was the war, he told himself. Three years of it had coarsened him, both in his own eyes and the eyes of others. Now he was fit for nothing but Service life where rank so often took the place of culture and embarrassment for one’s shortcomings could be kept at bay by the shouting of an order.
Gradually, however, the atmosphere of the room, with its old-world furniture, darkened wood, and gleaming brass, began to soak into him, relaxing his tight nerves. The warmth of the fire also had its effect, making his eyelids heavy. He studied the girl opposite him. She was beautiful! Her mass of hair was as bright as that of a child’s. And her voice—if only he could lie back with closed eyes and listen to it! He was tired, and it was as soothing as a moonlit sky after a barrage of flak. With an effort he forced his eyes open, made himself talk.
“You haven’t seen any ghosts in here yet?” he asked. “Cavaliers, Roundheads, and that sort of thing?”
Hilde laughed. “No, not yet. But I have not given up hope.”
“Do you usually travel about with your brother?”
She understood the significance of the question. “When it is considered safe, yes.”
Grenville nodded. She knew—it was safe to talk. “Then you’ll have a pretty good idea why he has come here?”
“I know he is working with your squadron, but that is all.”
He wondered if she had heard about the shipping strike. Her question made it appear she had read his thoughts.
“How did my brother manage this morning? I know that he flew with you.”
There was no doubt about the sincerity of Grenville’s reply. “He did a fine job. It wasn’t a pleasant trip and he took it well.”
She nodded. “He told me nothing of his part in it, but he did mention your efforts to draw the fire from your men. He thought that very brave of you.”
Embarrassment immediately made Grenville’s voice curt. “I think he exaggerated a little. The danger wasn’t as great as he imagined.”
She shook her head. “My brother has seen too much danger to exaggerate it. He has had more than his share of it since the war started.”
What was that undertone in her voice? In one as composed as she it was difficult to place. . . . Then Grenville recognized it and instantly the rest was clear to him.
“It was your brother who wanted to come along,” he said, understanding now her apprehension. “He insisted on it.”
He saw he had guessed correctly. He also saw that there was deep emotion in her, in spite of her natural gentleness.
She turned to face him. Her voice was still low in tone. “You know why, don’t you? That was because my brother cannot sit back and send others into danger. But he has to face dangers that none of you can share —terrible dangers. It is not fair that he should share yours too.”
Grenville shrugged. “I quite agree with you. But whose fault is it?”
“It is the fault of those in command,” she said quietly. “No one should be allowed to'take him with them. No one should offer to take him.”
Excuses for himself never came easily to Grenville. “You should tell this to your brother. There’s nothing we can do.”
She turned her face away. “How can I talk to him? When a man has a sense of duty like that, there is nothing a woman can do.”
Grenville’s voice softened. “It’s true—brave men can be stubborn. But I shouldn’t worry too much about it He’ll be all right.” He glanced down at his watch, then, surprised at his reluctance, rose to his feet. “I’m afraid I shall have to be getting along.”
Hilde rose after him. There was a confused look in her eyes now. “You are not quite as I imagined you . . .” She paused, then went on hesitantly: “Will you explain something to me?”
There was almost a wistful note in her voice. Grenville turned back. “Yes, if I can. What is it?”
“I know that you lost six men today. Then why do you hold a party tonight? It is something I do not understand...
There was a devil in Grenville that liked playing up to another’s unfavourable opinion of him. As a boy it had earned him many an unwarranted thrashing, and, perversely, thrived on the punishment. As a man it was more under control but on certain moods could be as wicked as ever. Her question, touching him where he was hypersensitive, put him in such a mood now.
“Why? Because I like parties. I like getting drunk— it’s a hobby of mine. What has losing six men got to do with that?”
The disappointment in her eyes goaded the devil in him further. “Don’t worry about your brother,” he said. “If he gets too drunk I’ll see him to his bunk.”
Her lovely, steady eyes met his own, and for a moment he had the odd sensation he was sinking down into their blue-grey depths. Down, sinking deeper, very cool, very tranquil, very forgiving....
He turned away with a sharp exclamation. Five minutes later he pushed open the door of the Mess. A cheer went up, startling him. The haze of tobacco smoke made him think of a shifting curtain between two worlds. He pushed his way through it and reached the bar. Someone pushed a filled glass into his hand and he drank deeply. The liquor sank into his stomach, warming his aching back and legs. This was the world he had chosen: this was the only world left—until it blew up in flame and broken spars around him! He lifted his glass and drank again.
* * *
Adams found himself in the innkeeper’s kitchen that night. Since his wife’s arrival he had developed a habit of joining Kearns over a cup of tea after the bar closed. Kearns was a restful person with his pipe and slow, contemplative voice, and Adams was growing attached to him. His kitchen, with its two rocking-chairs and its singing kettle, was becoming a brief sanctuary from the mad world across the road and (although Adams did not realize it yet) from the unsympathetic woman who was his wife. Instinct told Adams the innkeeper could be trusted and in the weeks to come he was to tell him more than was always discfeet. It was a lucky thing for Adams his instinct did not betray him.
This was the first night he went below the surface. The reason was not difficult to find: he was half-drunk. Losses always hit Adams hard, and this was no exception. He would have liked to go to the party, but dared not trust himself to conceal his feelings. In any case, it would have made him feel impossibly old and futile. ... With all his friends in the Mess and Valerie unsuitable company for such an occasion, there had been nothing for it but to drink alone, which he had done in a pub in Highgate. On his way back to camp a sudden impulse had made him enter the inn through a back door. Unknown to Valerie, he had now been with the innkeeper for over a quarter of an hour.
The warm, quiet sympathy of the room was having its effect. Adams turned suddenly from the fire and faced the innkeeper.
“Did you notice the planes come back this afternoon?” ~
Kearns was packing his pipe. He paused. “Aye, lad; we saw ’em all right. Some were lost, I hear.”
“Six men killed. I was sitting next to one of them at dinner last night. He was telling me what he was going to do when the war was over.” The sound of his own thick voice filled Adams with a vague disgust.
Kearns shook his head slowly. “Aye; it’s a terrible waste.”
“That’s how it goes, week after week, month after month, until you’re never quite sure who’s alive and who’s dead. Your memory starts playing tricks with you—you get the ghosts mixed up with the living.” “Aye. War is a wicked thing, lad. A wicked
thing.” Adams found his emotions were in a tangle again. He leaned forward abruptly, the firelight gleaming on his spectacles. “And yet, you know, I envy them. They do live before they die. They’re not doing the same old job, growing old slowly, feeling old age coming on a bit more every winter. They get more out of life in a day than we get in a year.”
Kearns shook his head stubbornly. “Don’t say any-77 tiling to make war sound better than it is, lad. War is a wicked thing. I know—I was in the last one.”
Adams’ half-drunken voice became suddenly resentful. “Oh; I know—I’ve been sitting on my backside too long listening to other people’s exploits. I see the glamour because I’m an onlooker. ... If I were in their flying boots I’d be scared to death.... All right, I agree with all that. But one thing I do know...”
“What’s that, lad?” Kearns asked quietly.
“Just this. That those who come through will never find life the same again. Some won’t know why, but I know. They’ll never feel so strong, they’ll never know blossom so white, they’ll never find girls so lovely. And why? Because you never feel the real sweetness of life until you stand at the edge of death. . . . It’s a paradox that makes me wonder if the whole business of living isn’t one big, dirty joke.”
10
Barrett stood by his office window, his blunt fingers drumming impatiently on the sill. He turned sharply at a tap on the door. “Come in,” he shouted.
Grenville entered. Barrett waited until he had closed the door before speaking. “I’ve just had Davies on the blower. He’s got a special job for us as soon as the weather’s suitable.”
“What is it this time? Another strike?”
“No, thank God. It’s a single job, a recce.” Barrett paused, his gruff voice dropping. “My guess is that it has to do with this big job everyone’s so tight-lipped about. This is the gen I’ve got so far.”
He took Grenville over to his desk on which lay a large-scale map of Norway. He pointed a blunt, tobacco-stained finger at a point on the coast above the 61st Parallel.
“There’s a fjord here called the Svartfjord. Apparently the convoy on which you dropped the hammer the other day sailed from it. It’s very steep, is about twenty-five miles along, and at the back end there is a hydroelectric plant and a large camouflaged building. It’s this building we have to photograph.”
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