Attack Alarm

by Hammond Innes

  By the time I got back to the pit it was nearly ten-thirty. Micky, who could never restrain his curiosity, immediately asked me what Ogilvie had wanted to see me about.

  “My grandmother has just died,” I said. “He’s given me a week’s compassionate to see her decently buried.”

  “A week! No kidding. You ain’t got a week? Just because your grandmuvver’s dead? This is a lousy battery. You people all hang together. If it’s one of the nobs and he just happens to feel tired, why, give ’im leave, give ’im leave. A week because your grandmuvver’s died! Cor, stuff me with little green apples! If it was one of the roughs like me and Fuller, it would be go chase yourself. It ain’t right, mate. It wouldn’t happen in the real Army. Not bloody likely. Infantry, that’s what I ought to be in.”

  Micky was very class conscious. But he was unintelligent about it. He saw privilege where there was none. This and his constant grumbling over nothing made him very annoying at times. He was always hardly done by, yet in point of fact he got away with more than any one else.

  “Oh, don’t be a fool, Micky,” said Langdon. “He hasn’t got leave. He’s just telling you politely to mind your own business.”

  “Oh, I get you.” Micky was all smiles again. “Sorry, mate. I didn’t rumble it.”

  Langdon had started examination of equipment, which was carried out on our gun every morning between ten and eleven. As there were already quite enough on the job, I sat down on the bench by the telephone. I was still worried. Most men, I suppose, would have considered the matter closed. If the Intelligence officer was satisfied, why should I worry? But journalism makes it instinctive in one to follow up a story to the bitter end. The Intelligence officer might be right. But what worried me was the way the German had broken off as soon as he saw Vayle. It was almost as if he had been caught saying something he should not have said. That alone explained the abruptness with which he had ceased speaking. And that suggested that he knew Vayle—that Vayle was, in fact, a fifth columnist.

  When we were relieved at eleven by Bombardier Hood’s detachment, I got hold of Kan as he left the pit. “You’ve been here some time, Kan,” I said. “Do you happen to know any one in the station who can tell me anything about Vayle—you know, the librarian?”

  He gave me a quick glance. But he did not ask me why I wanted to know about Vayle. “There’s an R.A.F. lad we used to meet in the airmen’s Naafi—that was before they put the marquee up. I think his name was Davidson. Anyway, he was assistant librarian. We got to know him because Vayle used to take those who were applying for commissions in trig. A dear fellow, he used to help us no end. I expect he’s still here.”

  “Could you introduce him to me?” I asked.

  “Why, of course, dear boy. Any time you like.”

  “Now?”

  “Now?” Again that quick look. For a second questions were on the tip of his tongue. But all he said was, “Right-o. I want to go down to the square to wash. I’ll take you in on the way.”

  I thanked him. “I’d be very glad if you didn’t mention this to any of the others,” I said. “I’ll explain some time.”

  “All right,” he said. “But if you’re free-lancing, be careful. Though God knows I shouldn’t have thought there was a story in poor little Vayle.”

  “Why ‘poor little Vayle’?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. He’s rather precious, don’t you think? Oh, I don’t suppose you’ve met him. He once told me that what he really wanted to be was an actor.” We went into the hut and he got his washing things out of his suitcase. As we set off past the dispersal point, he said: “I’ve often wondered why he became librarian at a place like this. He’s been here nearly four years, you know. And he’s a clever man. I thould think he would have done well in your own profession.”

  Four years! That made it 1936. “Do you know what he did before he came here?” I asked.

  “No, I don’t know, old boy. He didn’t come from another station, I’m certain of that. I should think he’d been a schoolmaster. He was very interesting when he was holding those trig, classes. Occasionally, when we had finished the routine work, he would talk about aerial tactics. I believe he’s writing a book about it. Perhaps that’s why you’re interested in him? I should think he’s travelled pretty extensively. At any rate, he’s studied internal continental politics. He told us a lot that I didn’t know about the Nazi rise to power and the behind-the-scenes activities in French politics. He didn’t exactly prophesy the collapse of France, but after what he had told us of the internal situation I wasn’t surprised when it happened.”

  This was interesting. Vayle, with his pale face and grey hair, was beginning to take shape in my mind. Everything depended on what he had been before he came to Thorby—or, rather, where he had been.

  Kan could tell me nothing more about him that was helpful. The impression I got from him, however, was that Vayle was no ordinary station librarian. He appeared to have a very wide knowledge of European affairs. And why, if he was such a brilliant student of contemporary affairs, had he been content to remain for four years at the station?

  The library shared a block with the Y.M.C.A. just behind Station H.Q. It was, in reality, an educational centre. Kan took me in and introduced me to Davidson, a thin wisp of a man with reddish hair and freckles. I told him I had come to see what the chances were of another trigonometry course. But when Kan had left, I led the conversation round to Vayle. Davidson, however, could tell me little more than I had already learnt from Kan. Though he had been working with Vayle for more than eighteen months, he did not know where he had been before he became librarian at Thorby.

  He admired Vayle greatly. He thought him a brilliant man. “His talents are wasted here,” he said, his rather watery eyes fixed on my face. So it came back to the same thing—why had Vayle been content to stay at Thorby?

  Then he began talking about the night’s action. “Mr. Vayle told me all about it this morning,” he said. “He talked to both the prisoners, you know.” He was full of information. “The younger one was only a boy—just turned seventeen. But the other was over thirty, with masses of decorations, including the Iron Cross, first and second class. It must be interesting to be in a position like Vayle now that there’s a war on,” he added reflectively. “Being a civilian he’s not subject to the restraint of rank. He’s very highly thought of by the C.O. I think he often consults him about things. He knows everything that goes on here, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t have a say in the strategy we adopt. What he doesn’t know about aerial tactics isn’t worth knowing.”

  “Did he actually talk to the prisoners?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. He’s a great linguist. I think he knows five different languages. He’d be able to talk to them in German. And I bet he got more out of them than the Intelligence officer.”

  “Did he tell you what they said?”

  “Oh, he said the older man was very truculent—a proper hard-boiled Nazi, I gather. The boy was in a terrible state of fright.”

  “When did he see them?” I asked.

  “As soon as they were brought in, I think. He said he and the C.O. were with them when the M.O. was dressing their wounds.”

  This was incredible. Yet because it was incredible, I felt it must be true. The whole position was once again as clear as it had seemed when I had been talking to Ogilvie. One thing had been puzzling me. That was whether a man of the type I had judged the pilot to be was sufficiently astute to divert the Intelligence officer’s attention from the plan to the projected raid. If Vayle were a secret agent, that was explained. He had told the airman what line to take. True, the C.O. and the M.O. had been present, but the probability was that neither of them understood German.

  I left Davidson in a very thoughtful mood. A horrible feeling of responsibility was growing on me. I knew only too well how a journalist’s enthusiasm for sensation can run away with his discretion. Yet I felt there was something here that I could neither forget
nor ignore. But I knew I must tread warily. If I went to the authorities, I should only get into trouble without achieving anything. Vayle was in a very strong position in the station. My suspicions, based solely on conjecture, would be laughed at. And it would be little consolation, when the place was in German hands, to be able to say, “I told you so.”

  There was only one thing to do. I must find out Vayle’s background prior to 1936.

  The square was hot and dusty in the glare of the sun. It was past twelve and the Naafi tent was open. I felt the need of a beer. It was stiflingly hot in the marquee, although there were few people there. I took my beer to a table near an open flap. The liquid was warm and gassy. I lit a cigarette.

  Suppose I ’phoned Bill Trent? He was the Globe’s crime reporter. Bill would know how to get hold of the information I wanted. But it would be folly to ’phone from a call box in the camp. They went through an R.A.F. switchboard. I couldn’t be sure that the operator would not be listening in. I had no idea how strict the censorship was in the station. The nearest call box outside the camp was in Thorby village. To go down there would be breaking camp. That was too dangerous.

  I suddenly remembered that we were on again at one. I ought to get my lunch. I was not very enthusiastic. One of the things I disliked about Thorby more than anything else was its messing arrangements. I suppose the airmen’s mess had originally been built to seat about four or five hundred men. It now had to accommodate about two thousand. It would be hot and smelly. The tables would be messy and there would be the inevitable queue. And there would be beans. There had been no other vegetable for weeks.

  I had just finished my beer and was getting up to go when Marion Sheldon came in. She looked fresh and cool despite the heat of the day. She saw me and smiled. Before I knew what I was doing I had ordered beer and we were sitting down at my table together. Then suddenly I realised that here was the solution to my difficulties. The Waafs were billeted out and were allowed considerable freedom. Moreover, I felt she was the one person in the camp I could really trust.

  “Look, will you do something for me?” I asked.

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “I want to get a message through to Bill Trent. It’s rather private and I don’t want to ’phone from the ’drome. I wondered if you’d put a call through to him from the village. I can’t do it myself. We’re tied to the camp.”

  “I would with pleasure. But I don’t think it’s much use. Several girls have tried to get through to London this morning. But they’re only accepting priority calls. I think the lines must have been put out of action by that raid on Mitchet yesterday.”

  This was a bit of a blow. I could write, of course. But that meant delay. “What about a wire?” I asked.

  “I should think that would get through all right,” she replied.

  I hesitated. A wire was not quite so private as a ’phone call or a letter. But it seemed the only thing. “Will you send a wire, then?”

  “Of course. I’m off duty till this evening.”

  I scribbled it down on the back of an envelope. “Please obtain full details Vayle librarian Thor by since thirty-six stop May be of vital importance stop Will ’phone for results early Friday.” I wasn’t too happy about it. It would have been so much more satisfactory to have spoken to him. I could only hope that he would read between the lines and realise just how important it was. I handed it to Marion. “I hope you can read it,” I said.

  She glanced through it. There was a slight lift to her eyebrows. But that was the only sign she gave that it was unusual. She asked no questions. And I was not inclined to explain the situation. Now that it came to committing myself to paper I felt too uncertain to risk any discussion of my suspicions.

  She slipped the envelope into her pocket. “I’ll send it off as soon as I’ve had my lunch,” she promised.

  “That reminds me,” I said. “I suppose I ought to go and have mine. I’m on again at one.”

  “Then you haven’t much time—it’s twenty to already.”

  I got up. “What about a drink this evening?”

  “I’d love to. But I’m on duty at eight.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I come off at seven. I’ll meet you here as soon after as I can make it. That is, of course, Hitler permitting.”

  “I hope he will.” She smiled. It gave me a sudden sense of confidence, that smile. It made me want to stay and talk the whole thing over with her. But I had to get my lunch, and so I left her there, sipping her beer.

  The afternoon went slowly. There were no alarms and I had plenty of time for reflection. When we came off at three we tried to get some sleep. This afternoon siesta was now a daily ritual. Without it, I am certain, we could never have kept going. It was easy to see who were the town dwellers and who were accustomed to working in the open air. Micky and Fuller went to sleep on their beds in the hut, not bothering to take off anything but their battle blouse and with at least one blanket over them. The rest of us stripped down and lay out in the sun.

  Though I had plenty on my mind, I had no difficulty in going to sleep. We were wakened at a quarter to five. As usual, I felt worse after my brief sleep. It would probably have been more intelligent to rest under cover, but the sun attracted me too much. The sense of leisure was infinite. The thought of the hot, dusty streets of London made Thorby seem for a brief period a holiday camp.

  I did not bother to go down to the mess for tea, even though it was the last good meal of the day. The sun had made me very weak and the idea of putting on battle dress and walking down to the square was quite repugnant. What several of us did was to make tea on the site. This was a much better proposition in every way, for the tea in the mess was really quite undrinkable. Then in the evening we would get food in the Naafi.

  We were off again at seven and I went straight down to the canteen tent. It was already crowded. Several of the lads from the other site were there. I looked round, but could see no sign of Marion Sheldon. In the end I got myself a drink and went over and joined the others.

  I kept a close watch on the entrance, but she did not come. At first I thought she must have been delayed. But by half-past seven I was wondering whether she had forgotten all about it. I began to feel rather peeked. Trevors had joined us and the whole of our detachment was there. The number of bottles on the table mounted rapidly. The place was insufferably hot and beginning to get noisy. I felt out of tune with it and very tired.

  Shortly after eight Elaine came in and joined us. I didn’t know how friendly she was with Marion, but I thought she might be able to tell me what had happened to her. But it was rather awkward. She was sitting at the end of the table with Trevors and the two sergeants. I waited, trying to pluck up courage to approach her. But I fought shy of the laughter that my concern about a particular Waaf would certainly evoke.

  Then one or two began talking about going to the supper canteen for food, and when they got up I joined them.

  As I passed Elaine I said: “What’s happened to Marion to-night?”

  She looked up at me over her shoulder. “Oh, she’s got herself into trouble over something. Four days fatigues. Shall I give her your love?” There was a wicked gleam in her eyes.

  I felt a sudden emptiness inside me. “What’s she in trouble over?” I asked.

  “She was very secretive about it, my dear.” Again I was aware of that gleam in her eye. I felt uncomfortable. “You’re not by any chance the cause of it, are you? You didn’t seem to waste much time last night.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I had a horrid premonition. And because I feared that she might be right, I felt tongue-tied. I was suddenly aware that the whole table was silent, listening to our conversation.

  She squeezed my arm in a friendly gesture. “It’s all right. I’ll give her your love.” And she gave me a sugar-sweet smile.

  I replied with what I fancy must have been a very sheepish grin and went with the others out of the tent. As we crossed the square to the big
block of the Naafi Institute, behind which was the supper canteen, Kan said: “She’s a little bitch, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I was a bit vulnerable, wasn’t I? I’d arranged to meet Marion there at seven and she didn’t turn up.”

  He laughed. “She’s still a little bitch. You don’t know Elaine. She can be really sweet, though her ‘my dears’ are a bit reminiscent of the cheap side of Piccadilly. At other times she’s just a cat. Tiny thinks she’s a paragon of all the virtues. He’s very simple. But she’s as promiscuous as it’s possible to be in a camp. She just naturally wants every man she sees.”

  I said nothing. What was there to say? I didn’t care a damn about Elaine. What was worrying me was why Marion had got into trouble.

  “You’re very moody, old boy,” Kan said. “You’re surely not worrying about your girl friend. I mean, a few fatigues are nothing in any one’s life.”

  “I’m just a bit tired, that’s all,” I said.

  The canteen was already pretty full. We took the only table that was vacant. It was against the wall nearest the kitchen. The heat was almost unbearable. We all ordered steak and onions. Whilst we waited for it we had more beer.

  “Well, here’s to our night’s bag, Kan,” said Chetwood, raising his glass to his lips.

  “What do you mean—your night’s bag?” demanded Beasley, a youngish lad from the other site.

  It started quite good-naturedly. But it soon became heated.

  “Well, what fuse were you firing? Fuse twelve? Well, listen, ducky, that ’plane crashed on the edge of the ’drome. It couldn’t have been more than three to four thousand yards away when you opened fire. Fuse twelve would have been well beyond the target.”

  “My dear fellow, I saw it burst just by the nose of the ’plane.”

  “Well, John had the glasses on it and he says ours burst just outside the wing. And it was the wing that crumpled. Anyway, you were a layer, weren’t you? How the hell could you see? I was laying too, and I could see nothing. The flash was absolutely blinding.”