Attack Alarm

by Hammond Innes

  “That’s more than I could,” I said. “You can barely see the ’plane itself.”

  “Well, it’s a Jerry anyway.”

  “How many times have I told you, Micky, that not all Jerries have double fins and not every ’plane with double fins is a Jerry,” said Langdon. “Here, give me the glasses.”

  It took some persuasion even for Langdon to get the glasses from him. And when he had them Micky muttered something about sergeants having all the fun.

  “Well, whose glasses are they?” asked Langdon tolerantly. Young though he was for a sergeant—he was only twenty-two—he had a fine understanding of the handling of men. Inevitably your first impression was that he was slack. And he was slack in things dear to the tradition of the Army. He had no hard-and-fast rules. His site was often rather untidy. He allowed his men tremendous licence. Yet no one, not even Micky, ever took advantage of it. He was cool and efficient in all things that he thought mattered—things that would lead to greater accuracy in firing. His men liked him, and unhesitatingly obeyed those commands that he did give. He never upbraided a man. Yet I never heard any one, not even Bombardier Hood, question his authority. They obeyed him because he was a born leader and not just because he had three stripes.

  Faced with Langdon’s tolerant friendly smile, all Micky’s pugnacity vanished in an answering grin. “I know, mate. I know. They’re yours, ain’t they. Anyway, I seen all I want to of the ruddy thing.”

  For some time we stood watching the cluster of searchlights moving south-east. “Cor, love old iron, I’d like to have a crack at it, wouldn’t you, mate?” Mickv asked me.

  “Yes, I would,” I said. “I’d like to send it crashing to earth. Funny how war changes one’s outlook. One gets a war mentality. I never thought I’d exult in killing. Yet here I am wanting with all my heart to kill three men. I suppose one develops the mentality of the huntsman. All one thinks about is the excitement of the chase. One doesn’t give a thought for the poor devil of a fox. And yet inside that ’plane are three human beings, much the same as you and me. Probably none of them wanted war. They’ve come over just obeying orders. There are shells bursting all round them. There’s probably a smell of burnt cordite in the cockpit. They’re all probably feeling pretty frightened.”

  I had been speaking more to myself than to Micky, for I did not really believe that he would understand what I was talking about. And when he spoke I knew that he hadn’t. “’Course they wanted this war. Machine-gunning women and children, that’s what they like. The cowards! Look at the way they’re running out of the barrage. They can’t take it, mate, I tell you.” Then suddenly he gave me a sidelong glance. “It’s a bastard kind of war,” he said. “Cold steel, that’s what I like. I don’t mind ’em when we’re firing at them. But I can’t stand just having them coming over and not doing anything. The infantry—that’s what I wanted to join. Did you know I volunteered for the Buffs? But they said there wasn’t no vacancy. I’d have to wait a month. And I couldn’t wait—straight, I couldn’t. I wanted to get at ’em right away. They said I could go straight into the R.A. That’s how I came to join this bleeding outfit.”

  He hesitated, watching me out of the corners of his eyes. I said nothing. “You think I’m silly about the lights an’ all, don’t you? You think I’m a coward because I keep my gas mask and tin hat on when there are Jerries about. Well, I ain’t, see. Give me a baynet and I’d go over the top with the best of ’em and never give a thought to the fact that I might get killed. But I can’t stand this inaction. This place is driving me nuts.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I haven’t been here long, but the atmosphere of the place is too tense to be pleasant.”

  “Remember when that formation came over Wednesday? I was scared stiff, mate, I tell you. They seemed to fill the sky. It didn’t seem as if they could miss. And then we started firing at them an’ I wasn’t a bit afraid, was I?” And when I made no comment, he said: “Funny! I can talk to you.”

  “I know how you feel,” I said. “It isn’t cowardice. It’s frustration. I feel the same myself, but it doesn’t show in the same way.”

  “Gawd! I’d give anything to get out of the place. I’d like to go to Egypt. There’ll be fighting in Egypt—real fighting. Hand to hand, mate—that’s the way to fight. Not like this.”

  “It’s nearly one,” Langdon said. “Will you go and wake the others, Fuller?”

  Fuller had barely left the pit when Chetwood suddenly said: “Have a look at that bunch of searchlights away to the north, John. Looks like a ’plane.”

  Langdon swung round and put the glasses to his eyes. “By God! You’re right, Chet,” he said. “And it’s coming this way.”

  I followed the direction in which his glasses were pointing. The criss-cross of searchlights showed quite plainly beyond the downs. And in the centre of it I saw—or thought I saw—a speck of light. I couldn’t be certain. Your eyes play you funny tricks after you’ve been straining them into the dark for some time. One minute it was there and the next minute it wasn’t. But the searchlights came steadily nearer, and I could see little pin-points of shell-bursts very near the centre of the criss-cross.

  Soon the searchlights on the ridge of the downs were in action and there was no doubt about there being a ’plane caught in the beams. It was quite visible now to the naked eye and growing more distinct every second.

  “It’s only about eight thousand feet and seems to be coming lower,” said Langdon. “I should say it’s been hit.” We watched it, breathless, expecting at any moment to see it turn off its course. But it continued to come straight on towards Thorby. “I think,” said Langdon slowly, “we’re going to see some action.”

  His voice was very cool and calm by comparison with my own excitement. I remember thinking how young and boyish he looked, standing there, his tin hat tilted on to the back of his head and his eyes intent on the ’plane. There was no ack-ack now. But the searchlights held it, and faintly over the still night air came the throb of its engines. I could see the shape of it now, the wide spread of its wings all silver in the dazzling beams.

  “All right, layers on,” said Langdon. “Fuse nine—load!” I handed the shell to Micky. He lowered the breech and rammed it home with his gloved hand. The breech rose with a clang. “Set to semi-automatic.”

  Fuller came running back into the pit. The ’plane was at about 5,000 feet now and still heading straight for us. The layers reported, “On, on!” Langdon waited. The throb of the engines beat upon the air.

  Suddenly came his order: “Fire!”

  A flash of flame and the pit shook with the noise of the explosion. I found I had another round in my hands. I held it for Micky to ram home. The gun crashed. Fuller came up with another round. I have a vague impression of that bright spot in the midst of the searchlights; the flash of our own shells and those of the other three-inch exploding just to the right of it. And then it seemed to fall apart in mid-air. I stood stupefied, with the next shell ready in my hands. The port wing crumpled and the nose dropped, so that we could see the big double fin of a Dornier. And then it began to fall, the wing bending back and separating itself from the rest of the ’plane.

  “My God!” Kan cried. “It’s coming down. Oh, my God! This is too exciting.”

  It fell very quickly. And as it fell it grew much larger, so that I suddenly realised that it was coming down right on the edge of the ’drome. I had a momentary glimpse of the big black cross on its one remaining wing. Then it hit the ground. One searchlight had followed it right down so that we actually saw the nose strike into the ground among some bushes to the north of the ’drome. The tail snapped off as it struck, and the whole plane appeared to crumple. An instant later came the sound of the impact. It was a dull thud splintered by the noise of rending metal. I remember being surprised that the sound of the crash should come after the ’plane had hit the ground. There was something almost supernatural about it, as though it had spoken after it was dead. I noticed
this apparent phenomenon many times afterwards and, though I knew it to be quite natural since sound travels slower than sight, it always surprised me. There was something rather horrible about it. It was one of the things that always made me feel sick inside.

  Immediately the ’plane had crashed, the searchlight swung upwards. For a moment I could see no sign of the ’plane, though the light of the searchlights showed up the edge of the ’drome quite clearly. Then suddenly I saw a pin-point of light. It grew. And then flung outwards in a flash of orange. A great umbrella of flame leaped upwards to a height of several hundred feet. And when it was gone, the light from the blazing wreckage showed a perfect ring of smoke drifting slowly skyward.

  “God! It’s horrible!” Kan was standing up and his thin aesthetic face was working as though he himself were in the blazing wreck.

  “What d’you mean—horrible?” demanded Micky.

  “They’re human beings just the same as us,” replied Kan, his hands pressed tight together as though in prayer and his eyes fixed on the blaze, fascinated.

  “Bloody murderers—that’s what they are, mate, I tell you. You don’t want to waste no sympathy on them bastards.”

  “Look!” cried Fuller, pointing up into the beams of the searchlights. “It’s a parachute. Two of ’em.”

  Our gaze swung from the wreckage up into the point in the searchlights where two white umbrellas of silk swung lazily earthwards. It was possible to see the men dangling from the parachutes as though held there by magic.

  “Who got it—us or the other site?” It was Bombardier Hood.

  He was still only half dressed. The rest of his detachment, in various stages of undress, were streaming out behind him.

  “We did,” Micky replied promptly. “An’ a bloody good shot it was, I tell you.”

  “It was impossible to say;” Langdon said. “Philip’s gun was in action. I saw two bursts. One was away to the right and the other seemed close beside his port wing-tip. It was quite impossible to say which was ours. Confoundedly lucky shot anyway.”

  At that moment the troop van drew up at the gun pit and Tiny Trevors got out, a big grin on his face. “Congratulations, Johnnie,” he said. “Damn good shooting.”

  “There, I told you so,” said Micky.

  “It was our shot, was it?” asked Langdon.

  “I don’t think there’s any doubt about it. Though, of course, Site One are quite convinced they brought it down. But Philip’s first shot was definitely to the right. He was firing fuse twelve, and he never had time to alter it. Your first shot was definitely short. You didn’t change your fuse, did you?”

  “No. We fired three at fuse nine.”

  “Then it must have been yours. The Jerry ran right into it.” He looked round the pit. “Your second detachment are due to take over, aren’t they? All right then, the others can pile into the van and we’ll go and have a look at the good work.”

  We needed no second invitation. We were as excited as a bunch of school kids. We scrambled over the parapet of sandbags and into the back of the van, all talking at once. When we got to the north end of the ’drome, the wreck was still burning. Several bushes had caught, adding to the blaze. Ground defence guards had already arrived, but it was impossible to get nearer than fifty yards owing to the intense heat. It hit one in the face as though one were standing in front of the open door of a blast furnace. Every one stood about helplessly, their faces ruddy in the glow and their eyes fascinated by the flames. The ’plane was just a twisted mass of steel framework that stood out black against the flames, except here and there where the steel was white with heat and dissolving into molten metal.

  It seemed incredible that a few minutes ago this mass of writhing steel had had power and a will of its own, and had been proudly flying through the night sky. I couldn’t believe that the transformation from a beautiful deadly weapon of modern warfare to this ugly mess was entirely due to the six of us—six ordinary men manning a gun.

  There was a sudden shout and every one’s gaze lifted skywards. Almost directly above us a parachute showed a dull orange in the glare. Slowly it descended, drifting silently through the still air. We watched it in silence. The only sound was the roar and crackling of the flames. Soon it was low enough for us to see the face of the man who dangled from it, swinging gently to and fro on the thin cords. His face was without expression. It was like a mask. It seemed a symbol of mass-production, and I immediately thought of the hordes that were pouring over Europe. Had all those men who had goose-stepped down the Champs-Elysées the same expressionless features? Was this the face of the new Germany—Hitler’s Germany?

  It was surprising how long it took for him to reach the ground. Yet when he hit the tarmac on the edge of the ’drome he seemed to be falling horribly fast. He managed to land with his feet first, and attempted to break his fall by rolling over. But at a distance of nearly a hundred yards the thud of his body striking the tarmac was sickeningly loud.

  We all ran towards the spot where he had fallen. I was one of the first to reach him as he staggered to his feet, his face white and set with pain. He did not attempt to reach for the revolver in his belt or to raise his hands in surrender. He did nothing. There was nothing he could do. One arm hung limp from the shoulder and he swayed unsteadily as though at any moment he must fall. But he kept on his feet and his face was no longer expressionless. Hate and mortification struggled for mastery of his features.

  A guardsman seized the revolver from his belt. The German forced himself to attention. “Wo ist ein Offizier?” he snapped. There was bitterness and contempt in his voice, which bore the stamp of the Prussian Junker class. “Ich verlange den meinem Rang gebührenden Respekt.”

  None of the others understood what he said. I looked quickly round. There was no officer in sight. A crowd of men, mainly soldiers, were pressed round in a circle. “Ich bedavere, es ist noch kein Offizier gekommen,” I said. I had spent some months in our Berlin office and knew the language quite well. “So it’s an officer he’s wanting, is it?” said a Scots Guard with a sour, lined face. “Ye’ve got a nerve, laddie. Ye had no mercy on the women and children over the other side. Ye had no mercy on us on the beaches of Dunkirk. Yet as soon as you’re down, ye start squawking for an officer.”

  The sights those men had seen of the bombing and machine-gunning of terror-stricken refugees in Belgium and France had left their mark.

  The German did not flinch in the face of the hostile circle of men. He stood stiffly erect, his face set. He was a tall, well-built man of about thirty. He had well-groomed fair hair, and his most noticeable feature was a very square jaw which gave him a sullen look. He had a row of ribbons on his flying suit.

  He looked round the crowd of faces. “You’ve shot me down,” he said, speaking in German. “But it won’t be long now. Soon you will collapse like the cowardly French.”

  “You’ll never invade this country successfully,” I replied, also in German.

  He looked at me. I think he was too dazed with shock to realise what he was saying. “You English! You are so blind. It is all planned. The day is appointed. And on that day your fighter aerodromes will be taken from you and you will be left defenceless to face the courageous might of the Luftwaffe.”

  I suppose I must have looked at him rather foolishly. But it was so reminiscent of our conversation in the Naafi that evening. Through a gap in the encircling crowd I saw a big R.A.F. car slither to a standstill. The C.O. Thorby and several other men got out, including the ground defence officer. Quickly I said, “I don’t believe you. It’s not possible.”

  “Marshal Goering has a plan,” he said heatedly. “We shall succeed with England just as we have succeeded with the other plutocratic nations. You do not understand the cleverness of our leaders. Thorby and your other fighter stations will fall like that.” He clicked his fingers.

  “You can’t possibly know anything about Goering’s plans,” I said. “You talk like that because you are afraid.”


  “I am not afraid and I am not a liar.” Two angry spots of colour showed in his white cheeks. “You say I know nothing of the Marshal’s plans. I know that on Friday Thorby will be heavily attacked by our dive-bombers. You will not think me a liar on Friday. And when——” He stopped suddenly, and I thought I saw a look of surprise tinged with fear in his blue-grey eyes, though his face remained as wooden as ever.

  I turned to find Wing-Commander Winton just behind me. But it was not on the C.O. that the German pilot’s gaze was fixed, but upon Mr. Vayle, the station librarian. The man’s mouth seemed to shut like a clamp and he said no more. The last I saw of him was as he was marched away between two guards to the C.O.’s car. He seemed suddenly to have become dejected and weary, for he staggered along, his head bent and his every movement betraying a listlessness that I could hardly believe due solely to reaction.

  CHAPTER THREE

  OUT OF TOUCH

  A DETACHMENT of Guards had been detailed by Major Comyns, the ground defence officer, to keep people a hundred yards from the burning wreck. No attempt was made to put out the flames. The authorities feared that there might be unexploded bombs. The rest of our detachment moved to the nearest point from which they could watch the spectacle, which was the edge of the roadway that circled the landing field. The blaze seemed to fascinate them. Subconsciously, their reaction to it was the same as mine had been—amazement that they were responsible for it. Both Wing-Commander Winton and Major Comyns had spoken to Trevors and Langdon before they left and congratulated them on the detachment’s success.

  But though I stood with the rest and watched the flames consuming the mass of twisted steel, I was barely conscious of what I saw. And when a second German was brought to the roadway to wait for a car, I only noticed that he was very young, that his face was covered with blood from a big cut on his forehead, and that he was crying—great uncontrollable sobs that seemed to shake his small frame. I could not crowd round like the others to gape at him in his boyish misery. My mind was occupied with my own problem.