Attack Alarm

by Hammond Innes

  He put down the receiver. “He’s sending out a warning to other stations right away,” Langdon told me.

  “Is Winton coming out here?” I asked.

  “Yes—and the ground-defence officer.”

  “Aren’t you two going to put your gas masks on?” came Guest’s muffled voice. He already had his on, and I suddenly realised that the whole of his detachment had put gas masks on. The smoke was curling into the pit and it smelt acrid and dirty. I had a moment of panic as I discovered that I hadn’t got mine with me. Langdon hadn’t got his either. In the excitement of the moment I don’t think any of our detachment had taken their masks with them. Langdon sniffed at the air and then shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say, what will be will be. We examined the pit gas detectors. They were unmarked though the smoke was thickening all round us. To the north it was still light, but visibility was too bad for us to make out any details. To the south, however, it was pitch black.

  It gave one an unpleasant feeling of being choked. At the same time I began to feel that expectant void in my stomach. Time was slipping by. In a few minutes it would be zero hour. I began to wonder what would happen. They might not have the smoke screen to help them, but that did not necessarily mean they wouldn’t land. And if they landed—well, on paper it should be a massacre. But—I wasn’t sure.

  “I think we’d better get out of here whilst we can still see our way,” Langdon said to me. “Winton will never get as far as the pit in this stuff. Well meet him on the road.”

  Smoke from the lorry to the north of us was now pouring over the brow of the hill and rolling in a thick, low-lying cloud across the landing field. It didn’t spread much, however, so that there was quite a well-defined lane of pale light, part moon, part dawn, between this bank of smoke and the one behind us. The latter was already beginning to thin out, for the cylinders, having been shattered, had not much staying power.

  We had barely reached the roadway when a pair of headlights nosed out of the smoke. At first I thought it was the armoured car. But when it cleared the smoke, it turned out to be a small sports car. As it drew up alongside us I recognised it for Nightingale’s. Three people were sitting in it. They looked strangely impersonal, for they had gas masks on. The two in front were in Air Force uniform. But the one behind was a civilian.

  I knew who the two in front were before they removed their gas masks. The driver was Nightingale, and it was Marion who sat beside him. “Where have you been, Barry?” Her voice was quiet. For a moment I thought her eyes looked reproachful, anxious. But there was a smile on her lips—a smile that made my heart race—and it spread from her lips to her eyes. Her whole face was suddenly lit up by that smile.

  It was an exquisite moment, shared between us there in the pale light of the dawn with the trappings of war all round us. It was an oasis in that grim, exciting desert of useless action. All that she had to offer a man was in her eyes as the smile overwhelmed the anxiety in their depths like sunlight. And both were for me. I felt pain in my heart, pain that was yet pleasure; pain that I had found beauty, but could not grasp it firmly for all time; pain because our moment was fleeting. Life is full of this ache for moments that cannot be held. War makes it greater, because there is a futility and not an inevitability about the immediate cause of one’s inability to hold one’s moments.

  Well, war has separated us now. And of all the things that make me love her, it is Marion’s smile, spreading from lips to eyes and lighting her whole face, that I remember most clearly, with that hungry longing that makes a separation almost sweet.

  I am sure I should have stood staring at her long oval face framed in her dishevelled page-boy’s hair and those sweet smiling eyes with no other thought till the troop-carriers came flocking to the ’drome. But the spell was broken by the civilian in the back. “Well, you old dog, Barry—what have you been up to?”

  I jerked my gaze from Marion. The fellow had removed his gas mask. It was Bill Trent. “What the hell are you doing here?” I said. I fear my tone was bleak. He had broken the spell. And any one who breaks the spell of that first discovery of love given and offered freely must surely expect a cold welcome.

  “I got back here from a forced landing near Redhill to find him waiting for me,” John Nightingale explained. “He had tried to see Winton without any luck.”

  “He’s proved that Vayle’s a spy,” Marion cut in, her voice sounding surprisingly matter-of-fact.

  “How do you know, Bill?” I asked.

  “Because he’s not Vayle at all, old boy,” Bill Trent replied. “Vayle was last seen in Dachau concentration camp in 1936. That was two years after the Vayle who is librarian here returned to England.”

  “Yes, but how do you know?” I asked.

  “After I’d got your message I did everything I could to find out Vayle’s background. I got details about the family, but all his relations seemed to be dead. I could unearth very little information about him prior to 1934. In desperation I combed through my refugee acquaintances. I knew a man who was one of the very few to escape from Dachau. He said he had been with Vayle for nearly two years in that camp. I knew he was telling the truth because he gave me Vayle’s life history, which tallied with what I had been able to discover. He said that when he escaped Vayle was still there, slowly dying of T.B.”

  “I got Winton to see Trent,” John Nightingale put in. “It was a bit of a shock for him. Vayle is a very brilliant man and he had done a great deal for the Fighter Command in working out tactics. A guard was sent to bring him in for questioning. But he had left the camp. That scared me. I told Winton everything that you had told me. He sent me out to your site to fetch you. It was then past midnight. You were missing. Miss Sheldon was on night duty at Ops. She told me which Cold Harbour Farm you had picked.”

  “And we went there and we found a dilapidated old farmhouse and a dear old gentleman in a nightcap and gown,” Marion put in. “But you weren’t there. He spoke of two soldiers he’d given a meal to. We came back here. We were in Ops. when all this started, and then Winton spoke to your sergeant. What happened to you, Barry? You did find something there, didn’t you?”

  Briefly I told them of the gravel pit and the lorries—and Vayle. I explained the plan to them. And I was just beginning to tell them how we had destroyed the three lorries when out of the thinning smoke came the armoured car, followed by two R.A.F. cars. Langdon stepped forward and waved to them. They drew up just short of us.

  Winton jumped out of his car, and Major Comyns and Ogilvie got out of the other. They had just taken their gas masks off and they were stuffing the face pieces into their haversacks as they came up to us.

  Langdon stepped forward and saluted. In a few words he explained the situation. When he had finished, the C.O. turned to a young artillery lieutenant who was standing by the open door of the armoured car. “Ross,” he called. “There is an R.A.F. lorry somewhere along this wire to the north. It must be put out of action at once. If possible, I want it captured intact. And I want prisoners. I’ll be at Ops.”

  “Very good, sir.” His voice was muffled in his gas mask. The iron door of the armoured car clanged to, and the great lumbering vehicle roared off along the tarmac and disappeared into the smoke to the north of us, which was also beginning to thin out now.

  Winton turned to me, “Good work, Hanson,” he said. “I’ll not forget it. I’d like you to stay with me. Sergeant Langdon, get your detachment together and your gun manned as quickly as you can. Gun Ops. will keep you informed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Langdon disappeared, Winton nodded to me, and I followed him to his car. He paused with one foot on the running-board. “Mr. Ogilvie, will you go round the gun sites. See that everything is all right, and above all see that they all know what their fields of fire are for action against ’planes landing on the ’drome. They must stick rigidly to those fields. I don’t want them duelling with each other across the landing field. Comyns will take you in his car. You�
�ll be going round the ground defences, Major, won’t you? Excellent! Good luck!” He climbed into the driving seat. “Come on, Hanson, jump in.”

  I got in beside him and the big car shot forward, dipping sharply as he swung it round. The smoke was no more than a few thin wisps now, and in front of us the familiar shapes of the station showed dimly in the cold grey light of dawn. We made a half-circle of the landing ground and swung in at the barbed-wired gates of Operations. Winton had driven fast, and all the time he plied me with questions. But as we descended the ramp to Operations he was suddenly silent.

  His was a big responsibility. And in the minutes that followed I came to admire him greatly. He was conscious of the weight of that responsibility. It was a weight that could not be carried lightly. But he carried it calmly and without fuss. I think he was one of those men who are at their best in action. He was cool and he used imagination.

  The first thing he did on entering Operations was to order two Hurricanes to be loaded with smoke and to send a dispatch rider to the meteorological tower for two balloons. “Tannoy!” he called. “Give the All Clear for gas.”

  Faintly from somewhere outside that big subterranean room came the echo of a voice that spoke quietly into a microphone in one corner: “Attention, please! Attention, please! Gas all clear. Gas all clear. You can show your faces again, boys. It’s all clear for gas.”

  The room was confusing at a first glance. There were so many girls sitting at telephones and so many officers and Waafs standing about, apparently doing nothing. And everything centred on a large table, the top of which was a map of south-eastern England and the Channel.

  I suddenly found Marion at my elbow. She squeezed my arm and I looked down to find her eyes bright with excitement. “It’s all yours,” she said. “Your show. I hope it goes well.”

  “Where’s Nightingale,” I asked.

  “Gone to dispersals. In a few minutes he’ll be leading his squadron up.”

  “And Trent?” I asked.

  “Oh, I left him at the entrance. He’s trying to get permission to come in here.” She squeezed my arm again and crossed the room to a vacant desk on which was a telephone and a pad.

  I stood there, bewildered and alone. I felt conscious of my dirty oil-stained battle dress, so out of place here where there was nothing but Air Force blue. I wished I could have been going up with a squadron to fight invasion. Action! I wanted action; to be on the gun—anything rather than the suspense of waiting with nothing to do.

  Winton called me and handed me a message. On it was scrawled: “Mitchet report four smoke lorries captured.” After that, one by one, the fighter ’dromes of the south-east reported lorries containing smoke either captured or put out of action.

  All at once my sense of bewilderment vanished. I no longer felt out of place down here in this strange room. It was like being suddenly transported back to journalism. Here was action and I was watching it. My brain would record impressions of it, and some day I’d use this material. God! What wouldn’t some Fleet Street boys give to be on the inside of this story. I felt the thrill of pride that comes of achievement.

  A Waaf came up to Winton. “Mr. Ross reports lorry captured intact, sir,” she said. “He’s got seven prisoners.”

  “Good. Tell him to fetch the lorry and the prisoners down here at once.”

  So much for Vayle’s attempt to help German troops to land at Thorby. I remembered how he had sent those lorries off. He had been so calm and so assured. Well, he had had every right to be. It had been a clever plan. His luck had been out, that was all. And what would he do now? It seemed such a strange anti-climax for him to be arrested and shot as a spy. Yet that was what would probably happen. And Winton would, of course, have to be present at the court-martial.

  Telephone buzzers sounded. The Waafs at their desks began writing furiously. Others took the slips of paper to the table. The whole room suddenly sprang to life. Everything was confusion; but it was the ordered confusion of a job being carried out.

  Little wooden markers with arrows began to appear on that section of the table that represented the Channel. All the arrows pointed one way—towards the south-east coast. And the wooden markers had swastikas on them. They also had numbers. There were several thirties and one or two forties and fifties plotted within the space of a few seconds. Each marker meant a formation of enemy ’planes. I counted three hundred and forty plotted already.

  “Get both squadrons up,” Winton ordered. And a moment later came the faint sound of the Tannoy: “Both squadrons scramble I Tiger Squadron scramble! Swallow-tail Squadron scramble! Scramble! Off!”

  I heard a Waaf on a telephone just near me saying: “Several large formations of hostile aircraft approaching from the south-east. They are believed to be troop-carriers with fighter escorts. Heights range from fifteen to twenty thousand feet. Guns are to hold their fire.”

  The movement of the enemy air attack began to take shape as the markers were moved steadily forward with every observation report that came in. Other markers also appeared. These had the red, white and blue roundels of the R.A.F., and they were mainly inland from the coast.

  The young artillery officer, Ross, came in. He went straight up to Winton. They conversed in low tones. Suddenly the C.O. said: “Balloons? With lights? Excellent. A green at the start of the runway and red at the end, eh?”

  “No, the other way about, sir. And it’s a red light and a white light.”

  “Sure the fellow isn’t trying to put one across you?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. He’s pretty badly hurt and very frightened.”

  “What height are they to be flown at?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I didn’t ask him.”

  Winton turned to me. “Do you know what height these balloons are to be flown at, Hanson?”

  “Vayle said fifty feet, sir.”

  “Good. That means about thirty feet above the smoke. Get the balloons blown up and the lights attached. The red light will be above the hangars just east of Station H.Q., and the white one above the main gates. Fly the balloons at eighty feet. Can you get them in position in five minutes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very good. I’m giving orders for the smoke screen to be laid right away. It will be between thirty and fifty feet. See that the balloons are up by the time the smoke screen is finished.”

  “Yes, sir.” He dashed out of the room.

  Winton went over to a switchboard. “Give me Number Two dispersal,” he told the Waaf telephonist. “Hallo! Marston? Are those two Hurricanes ready with smoke? They’re to take off at once and lay a smoke screen along the eastern edge of the ’drome from the Thorby road to the north edge of the landing field. The smoke must not be loosed at less than thirty feet or more than fifty feet, and they must cut off at the limits given. They will continue until the smoke is exhausted or they receive instructions to cease. Right. Tell ’em to scramble.”

  Winton had a number of ground-staff officers round him now. He was issuing orders to them in a quiet, precise voice. I only caught a few words here and there. From above ground came the faint murmur of engines revving up. On the table the swastika markers had moved forward over the coast. The attack was taking shape. Formations of about fifty bombers and a hundred fighters were closing in on each of the fighter stations. Two of these formations were heading in our direction.

  An officer came to the telephone just beside me. “Gun Ops.? Warn the guns that the two Hurricanes just taking off will be laying a smoke screen about fifty feet above the ’drome. They are only to fire on enemy ’planes landing on the field. They will not open fire at aircraft that crash. Any survivors will be mopped up by ground defences.”

  Before he had finished speaking the Tannoy announced: “Attention, please! A smoke screen is being laid over the ’drome by two of our own machines. Hostile troop-carriers may be expected to attempt a landing. Some of these will probably crash. Ground defences will ensure that no hostile troops are allowed t
o take offensive action after their ’planes have crashed. Care should be taken to avoid getting in the field of fire of the guns which have instructions to open fire on any hostile ’planes that succeed in landing on the ’drome. Off.”

  “Hanson!” It was Winton calling me. “I think you had better report back to your gun site now.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Any points that have not been covered?”

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “Right. Thank you for your help—and good luck.”

  “And to you, sir.” I saluted and hurried out of Operations. Bill Trent was outside. “Look after yourself, Barry,” he said. “I’ll want a story out of you when the show is over.”

  “You’ll be lucky if you’re allowed to print it,” I said. And jumping on the first bike I saw, I rode up the ramp and out on to the tarmac. I could just make out our gun pit almost on the other side of the ’drome. It stood out against the dull glow of the eastern horizon. The moon had set and the flying field looked pale and flat and cold. Tin hats—blue and khaki—showed above the ramparts of the ground-defence trenches. Soldiers stood waiting, their rifles ready, at the entrance to pill-boxes. There was an unpleasant atmosphere of expectancy.