Attack Alarm

by Hammond Innes

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY HAMMOND INNES

  DEDICATION

  TITLE PAGE

  CHAPTER I – GROUND PLAN

  CHAPTER II – NIGHT ACTION

  CHAPTER III – OUT OF TOUCH

  CHAPTER IV – NOT SINGLE SPIES

  CHAPTER V – SUSPECT

  CHAPTER VI – THE ATTACK

  CHAPTER VII – AFTERMATH

  CHAPTER VIII – EVERYMAN’S HAND

  CHAPTER IX – COLD HARBOUR

  CHAPTER X – SMOKE OVER THORBY

  COPYRIGHT

  About the Book

  Summer, 1940. The skies above Britain are criss-crossed with the white scars of dog-fights as fighter pilots clash with the merciless German Luftwaffe. But one air defence gunner suspects the greatest threat to his country’s safety might not come from the air, but from a secret plot now unfolding around him on the ground. Can he convince anyone to listen to his fears? Will they hear him in time?

  About the Author

  Ralph Hammond Innes was born in Horsham, Sussex, on 15 July 1913 and educated at Cranbrook School, Kent. He left school aged eighteen, and worked successively in publishing, teaching and journalism. In 1936, in need of money in order to marry, he wrote a supernatural thriller, The Doppelganger, which was published in 1937 as part of a two-year, four book deal. In 1939 Innes moved to a different publisher, and began to write compulsively, continuing to publish throughout his service in the Royal Artillery during the Second World War.

  Innes travelled widely to research his novels and always wrote from personal experience – his 1940s novels The Blue Ice and The White South were informed by time spent working on a whaling ship in the Antarctic, while The Lonely Skier came out of a post-war skiing course in the Dolomites. He was a keen and accomplished sailor, which passion inspired his 1956 bestseller The Wreck of the Mary Deare. The equally successful 1959 film adaptation of this novel enabled Innes to buy a large yacht, the Mary Deare, in which he sailed around the world for the next fifteen years, accompanied by his wife and fellow author Dorothy Lang.

  Innes wrote over thirty novels, as well as several works of non-fiction and travel journalism. His thrilling stories of spies, counterfeiters, black markets and shipwreck earned him both literary acclaim and an international following, and in 1978 he was awarded a CBE. Hammond Innes died at his home in Suffolk on 10th June 1998.

  OTHER NOVELS BY HAMMOND INNES

  Air Bridge

  Atlantic Fury

  Campbell’s Kingdom

  Dead and Alive

  Delta Connection

  Golden Soak

  High Stand

  Isvik

  Killer Mine

  Levkas Man

  Maddon’s Rock

  Medusa

  North Star

  Solomons Seal

  Target Antarctica

  The Angry Mountain

  The Big Footprints

  The Black Tide

  The Blue Ice

  The Doomed Oasis

  The Land God Gave to Cain

  The Last Voyage

  The Lonely Skier

  The Strange Land

  The Strode Venturer

  The Trojan Horse

  The White South

  The Wreck of the Mary Deare

  Wreckers Must Breathe

  TO DOROTHY

  Here at last is the book I have been promising you. If it is scrappier than usual, you must blame the circumstances in which it has been written. At the same time, I hope you will find the material interesting. Within the framework of a thriller, I have endeavoured to give some idea of the atmosphere of a fighter station during the Blitz. And since it has in it so much of my life since we have become separated, it has, in the fullest sense, been written for you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  GROUND PLAN

  THE ATMOSPHERE of the place was stifling. The air was hot and full of smoke, and the lamps, which had just been lit, glowed dimly. From where we sat at the entrance it was barely possible to see the beer counter at the far end. And between ourselves and the bar was a sea of faces, sweat-glistening and animated—like masks seen vaguely through curling tobacco smoke. This was our only recreation. This was Thorby in mid-August.

  It had been exciting enough at first. A fighter station at the beginning of the Blitz was exciting. But after only a week in the place, the excitement had palled; it had become a strain. The inevitability of concrete runways and brick and concrete buildings, the din of revving engines and the dust had asserted themselves. Dust and noise—that epitomised Thorby. And not even the excitement of action could dispel my sense of depression.

  It wasn’t just the dust and the noise that made me depressed. Thorby was better than some stations. It had been built in 1926, and those who had planned it had had the grace to give the roads grass borders and to plant trees. At certain strategic points there were even flower-beds. God knows, I longed for the fresh green of the country. But it wasn’t that that made it impossible for me to join the others in celebrating their first action. It was the atmosphere of the place. It was tense—tense with waiting. Even in the few days I had been on the site, Thorby had changed. France had fallen in June. The Luftwaffe was just across the Channel now. Invasion was in the air. The coast and the fighter ’dromes felt it most, for they had become the front line. All round the ’drome barbed-wire entanglements were springing up. Trenches were being hastily dug at vulnerable points and brick and concrete pill-boxes built to cover the landing-field as well as the outer defences. Civilians had been brought in to help the Army. Thorby was like a town preparing for a siege. And it had the same atmosphere. Every one was waiting, waiting with nerves taut.

  That atmosphere of tension was nowhere more noticeable than in the big Naafi tent at the edge of the square. There was no leave now—not even local leave. There was no relaxation from the strain of waiting, except to come here and drink and sweat.

  God! how stifling it was! At the table opposite ours a sapper struck up “Tipperary” on a mouth organ. In an instant half the tent had taken up the song. Why did we have to fall back on the last war for our songs? I was thinking with distaste of those abortive efforts of the early days—“Run Rabbit Run” and “We’ll Hang Out our Washing on the Siegfried Line”—when somebody touched me on the arm. I looked up. It was Kanly Furle. “What are you drinking?” he asked, leaning across the table to make himself heard.

  I shook my head. “No more for me, thanks.”

  “Oh, but, my dear man, you simply must. We’ve got up to sixty-five. One more round and we’ll have seventy-five. That will be a new high for the troop.”

  I stared at the array of bottles. Whilst I had been lost in my thoughts, the others had collected our litter of bottles and arranged them in column of threes. They stretched from one end of the table to the other and overlapped on to the next.

  Kan pointed to the one bottle of brown ale which had been stood out in front. “Oggie,” he said. He had risen to his feet and his slim body was swaying slightly. “You know—our little man—Ogilvie. You’re drinking a pale ale.”

  And with that he went off up the gangway and pushed his way in amongst the crowd at the bar. He was a tall, slim boy, rather too narrow in the shoulders to be well-built, but graceful in his movements. He was an actor and an obvious devotee of Gielgud. This and the fact that he affected a silk scarf beneath his battle blouse made him rather an outstanding personality even in a varied troop like ours.

  He returned bearing ten bottles. When he had distributed them, he sat down in the seat opposite me.

  “Well, here’s to those famous last words of yours, Kan—‘Look at those Blenheims!’” said
Sergeant Langdon. He was our detachment commander.

  “Blemins!” exclaimed Micky Jones. “Blemins! Were they—hell! I’d like to kill every bleedin’ Jerry wiv a baynet. Cold steel! that’s what they want. The beggars can’t take it. Cold steel, mate! They can’t take that, can they, John?” he asked Langdon and buried his face in his glass. He was a scruffy little man, with a dark, round face, hardly any teeth and very close-cropped brown hair.

  “It certainly was pretty funny,” said Bombardier Hood. “There we were, standing around chatting, and suddenly you yell, ‘Look!’ with dramatic outflung arm. ‘They’re Blenheims.’ And the next minute they go into a dive over Mitchet.”

  “And when they dived—did you ’ear what ’e said when they dived?” put in Micky. “He said: ‘They’re going to land.’ He said that, didn’t ’e, John? You was wrong there, mate. They was bloody dive-bombing the place.”

  “And then you began to cry,” said Hood. He had the grace to take the edge off his remark with a laugh, but I felt it was a bit much as he was drinking Kan’s beer.

  “Well, I must admit we thought they were Blenheims too,” said Philip Muir. He was the sergeant from the other three-inch site on the far side of the ’drome. He had come from one of the discount houses and was rather older than most of us. “I had the glasses on them. I knew Junkers 88’s were like Blenheims, but I never really knew how like until I saw those blighters.”

  “Can’t think why we didn’t get a proper plot.”

  “I must say I was certain they were hostile as soon as I saw them.” This from Bombardier Hood.

  “He’s always right,” Kan said to me in a stage whisper that carried the length of the table.

  Hood darted him a quick glance. “What would eleven Blenheims be doing in a fighter area anyway?” he added defiantly.

  “Could you see the markings?” Muir asked John Langdon.

  “Yes, quite plainly. I had the glasses on them all the time.”

  “Glasses! You could see ’em wiv the naked eye, mate. Bloody great crosses. The bastards!”

  “Guess it’ll be our turn next.”

  “I thought they were coming for us to-day.”

  “They must have unloaded all their bombs on Mitchet.”

  I couldn’t help thinking what a story it would have made in peace-time. And now it would be dismissed in a paragraph. Enemy aircraft made a dive-bomb attack on an aerodrome in the South-Eastern counties. Or more probably there would be no mention of it at all. It seemed incredible when such a fuss was made about things like railway smashes in peace-time. And how much more spectacular this attack on Mitchet was!

  We had taken post at about 16.30 hours. The plot had been an unknown number of hostile aircraft approaching from the south-east. Nothing happened until just after five. Then suddenly the gentle hum of engines sounded in the still summer air. It was absolutely cloudless and we scanned the azure bowl of the sky, waiting, as the sound grew louder until it was a dull throb, like the beat of blood against one’s eardrums. It was Kan who saw them first. They were coming almost out of the sun, and for an instant one of them glinted, a silver speck, as it banked slightly to maintain formation.

  They were to the east of us and at between fifteen and twenty thousand feet. Slowly they came lower. They passed to the north-east of the ’drome at little more than ten thousand feet. It was then that Kan said they were Blenheims. They certainly looked like it with practically the same taper on the leading and trailing edges of the wings. They continued past Thorby towards Mitchet, still dropping.

  And then suddenly the leader banked. The other two in the first formation followed suit. For a second it really did look as though they were circling to land at either Thorby or Mitchet. But the leader rolled right over on to his port wing-tip and then began to fall nose first; the other two followed. And then one by one the others tipped over and went down. Nobody in the pit said a word. We held our breath, waiting for the bombs. It was the first time I had ever seen a dive attack. The downward plunge had the inevitability of a preying hawk. There was no ack-ack. Not one of our fighters was to be seen. It made me feel sick. Mitchet lay defenceless on the floor of the plain between us and the North Downs. It was murder.

  “There they go,” Bombardier Hood had said suddenly. From beneath the first plane several bombs fell in a cascade, their metal showing white for a second as they caught the sun. Almost immediately bomber and bombs parted company as the former flattened out of its dive. The others seemed to follow right on his tail. I thought the stream would never cease. And before the whole formation had completed its attack my eyes were drawn to the ground. It was misty with heat. Nevertheless I could make out Mitchet hangers and the criss-cross of the runways. And right in the midst of it great fountains of earth and rubble shot into the air. An instant later came the sound—dull, heavy crumps that seemed to make the earth quiver beneath our feet.

  Then somebody said, “They’re turning this way.” And sure enough they were coming out of their dive into formation again and banking towards Thorby, climbing all the time. For a moment my heart was in my mouth. And then all sense of fear was lost in the excitement of action. They came back straight over the ’drome at about ten thousand feet. My impression of what happened is blurred. I remember the ear-splitting crack of the first shot. I had been warned that the three-inch was one of the noisiest guns. But even so, I was not prepared for the loudness of it. It was like hell let loose, with the flash from the muzzle and the flames flung backwards round the breech ring as the gun kicked back. I remember handing a shell to Micky Jones, who was loading. I remember, too, a brief glimpse I had of the planes when they were right overhead. My impression was of a perfect formation, of big black crosses on light-green wings and of little white puffs where our shells were bursting. Langdon’s “Cease fire!” left me with a shell in my hands and a feeling of the keenest disappointment that we had not brought anything down.

  “Hallo, boys!” I looked up. Tiny Trevor’s big bulk loomed over the table. “I see by the parade-ground effect that everybody is drinking pale ale. How many is it—ten? Would you like to get them for me, Micky? I had a sort of premonition I should find you all here.” Trevors was the Troop Sergeant-Major and very popular at that. He was like a great big playful boy, and he could be charming when he wanted to be.

  “Really, Tiny, I don’t think I want any more,” said John Langdon. “I ought to get back to the site.”

  “Oh no, you don’t, John. The occasion demands a drink. Besides, I want to have a chat with you and Philip.” His roving eye fell on two Waafs standing near the bar. “Ah, there’s Elaine. I promised I’d meet her here. I’ll be back in a second. Make it thirteen, will you, Micky?” He tossed ten bob on to the table in front of Micky Jones and went up to the bar.

  “Who’s Elaine got with her?” asked Philip.

  “Don’t know,” replied one of the older members of the troop from his site. “Must be new, I haven’t seen her around before.”

  “A new batch arrived last week,” said another from the same site, whose name I did not know. “I saw them going through the gas chamber the other day.”

  “Fair smasher, ain’t she,” said Micky as he got to his feet. “Puts me in mind of a tart I met down at Margate one August bank holiday. She had fair hair an’ all.”

  “An’ all,” Muir repeated in the general shout of laughter. “Sure she had ‘an’ all’?”

  “Who’s coming wiv me to help carry these drinks?”

  Two fellows got up. I didn’t notice who, for my attention had wandered to the two Waafs talking to Trevors. They were both very attractive. The shorter, whom I took to be Elaine since Trevors was talking mainly to her, was small and dark, with rather round features and a short straight nose. It was the other, however, who attracted my gaze. She was tall and slim with straight fair hair beneath her peaked cap. There was a certain distinction about her. The movement of her hands when she talked was expressive, and though her face was too long and he
r mouth too wide for beauty, she was undoubtedly attractive.

  Trevors nodded in the direction of our table and they came down the gangway towards us. Elaine seemed to know every one. “Meet the Artillery, Marion,” she said. Some she introduced by their surnames, but mostly she used their Christian names. She stopped at me and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. I don’t think we’ve met before.”

  “Hanson,” I said, “Barry Hanson.”

  “Barry Hanson,” the other girl repeated. “You’re not by any chance a journalist?”

  “Why, yes. How did you guess?”

  “On the Globe?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh dear, it’s a small world, isn’t it? I was on the Globe too.”

  I stared at her, puzzled. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t ever remember seeing you around.”

  “No, I don’t think we ever met. I was at the City office. Norman Gale’s secretary. You probably remember me as Miss Sheldon. You used to ring me up periodically to get industrial unemployment statistics. Remember?”

  “Good God! Yes. Of course I remember. Strange! You were just a voice on the telephone and now we meet in this dump. Come and sit down.”

  Kan made room for her on the bench beside him. She pushed her gas mask and tin hat under the table and took off her cap. Her straight hair fell practically to her shoulders. She had blue eyes and a way of looking directly at the person she was talking to.

  Trevors pushed past behind me. “Come and sit down over here, Elaine,” he said. “I want to talk to these two boys. He sat down next to Philip Muir. The drinks arrived and were distributed. Marion Sheldon and I began discussing the paper and the various personalities on it whom we had both known.

  “It’s funny that you never came up to the office,” she said. “You were quite a friend of Norman Gale’s, weren’t you?”

  I explained that I usually met him either down in the street or else at one of the City haunts. “I can’t think why you wanted to join up,” I said. “You had a very good job and a very interesting one. And I should think Norman was a very good fellow to work for.”