The machine slammed onto a stretch of open ground and stopped after rolling a few yards.
Yardley scrambled across to the rear cockpit, where Tearle sat slumped with his chin resting on his chest, blood all over his face.
“Harold! I’ll get you out, old man... Harold?”
There was no reply. He hauled Tearle partly out of the rear cockpit, then jumped to the ground and reached up to ease him out and lay him down.
His own garments were smeared with blood and for a few seconds he examined himself for an injury, but there was none. The blood had come from Tearle’s wounds, soaking through his clothes and seeping through bullet holes in his chest, arms and shoulders. It oozed from a gash in his helmet. He must have died even before they were trapped among the barrage balloons.
Chapter Sixteen
Yardley trembled from shock, the jarring impact with the ground and the intensity of his feelings about Tearle’s death, compounded by his grief only a few hours ago when Wotton was killed.
He could hear the squadron — what remained of those who had set out 100 minutes ago — overhead. Some of them were still shooting at the lights, the few remaining active guns and at the balloons. Only three searchlights still swept the sky. High cloud still covered the moon.
He climbed back into the aeroplane to find the two maps; and his boots which, thanks for the forethought of Wotton and Tearle, were stowed under his seat. Hurriedly he pulled off his thigh-boots and laced the other pair.
Now what was the best course? He had no compass, but he was oriented and the map of the whole area between here and his base was clearly imprinted on his memory. He had to head westward, walking by night and hiding by day. It would take him four days to escape from Germany and enemy-held France. His most formidable obstacle was the broad Rhine. He would have to steal food.
How long would it be before the Germans found his aircraft?
At least he was fluent in German. He and his brothers and sisters had been taught French and German by a governess who was a native of Alsace Lorraine.
There were woods a couple of hundred yards away and a road he must cross to reach them. Pursuers would see his footprints in the snow. He would be safer on a road, where there were wheel tracks and where the snow had been worn away to the surface. As he made for the road he unbuttoned his outer garment and took his revolver from its holster, then buttoned up again and put it ready to hand in a pocket.
He had reached the road and been following it for ten minutes, walking as near to the edge as he could while still taking care to tread where the snow had been flattened by vehicles, when he saw headlights approaching and halted to listen. His heart was pounding, making it difficult to hear. He had already shifted the ear flaps of his helmet. The sound of a lorry engine reached him. He jumped into the roadside ditch and burrowed into the snow, piling it on top of him.
The lorry clattered past and was quickly out of earshot. He emerged gingerly from the piled snow and peeped out of the ditch. The lorry’s rear light had disappeared but he could see the beams of its headlights faintly as they rounded curves in the road.
He climbed onto the road again and hurried on. He had come down beyond the outskirts of the town but the road was leading him around it instead of away from it. More clouds were drifting across the moon, which was a help to him. He knew there would be more than one search-party out hunting for him. If he were in doubt of his direction at any time, he could verify it from the stars. He was full of confidence and he knew that it was most important for him to get far from Fichtewald as quickly as he could. If he could escape capture for the first six hours, he should be able to evade it altogether; and there were about seven hours of darkness left.
A better plan than a long footslog and a crossing of the Rhine came to him. Intelligence had warned of a new aerodrome at Schutzstadt from which an Albatros squadron was flying. That was only 15 miles or so away. He could cover that distance easily in a few hours. If he waited until night fell again he should be able to creep onto the aerodrome and steal an aircraft. The air station would not be heavily guarded; here, many miles behind the German frontier and further still from the limits of enemy-held France. It might not even have a barbed-wire fence all round the perimeter.
He had flown enough different types of aeroplanes to have no doubts about the Albatros: cockpit layouts were very much alike in all contemporary aircraft with their very few and basic instruments, switches, pumps and all the other fittings known collectively to the RFC as “taps”. He had actually sat in the cockpit of an Albatros D2 he had shot down long ago and still had a fairly clear memory of it.
Schutzstadt it had to be, then. His greatest problem would be to start the engine. He could just manage to do that himself if he were nippy. If not, his German was easily good enough for him to impersonate a German officer and bark at some mechanic to swing the prop for him. Pilots in all the Allied and enemy air Services wore a great variety of flying clothes. He had seen Germans in a garment which resembled the Sidcot suit. His German accent was not perfect, but it was far better than the average Englishman’s and would pass for a regional one.
He was hastening along at the roadside, his spirits rising as he formed this plan, when he became aware that he was approaching a house which stood alone between a wood and the road. He paused once more to listen.
The house was quiet and not a chink of light showed from any of its windows or the front door. He moved silently closer and when the clouds slid away from the moon again he saw that there were poultry houses and wire-netted runs behind the house. His nose caught the whiff of pigswill and when he went closer still to the wooden paling that surrounded the garden he identified a brick structure with a wall enclosing a small compound which must be a pigsty.
He returned his attention to the road. A dim light was moving towards the house. Crouching, he discerned the shape of a man riding a bicycle against the moonlit snow. The man wore a military cap. Yardley crouched lower, drawing his muffler over his nose and mouth so that his condensing breath would not betray him, although he was thirty yards away. The German soldier leaned his cycle against the fence, went in at the gate and up the path. He knocked on the door.
Yardley saw the door open, briefly shedding a shaft of light on the path. He heard a young woman’s voice exclaim, “Back so soon? We are all right, thank you.”
He saw the man thrust the door open and say, impatiently, “Let me in, Ilse. Don’t stand there showing a light.” The man went in and the door slammed.
Yardley spent a few moments in thought. If he stole the bicycle, it could be a great help; provided the roads were deserted. On the other hand, if he moved about much he would disturb the poultry and the pigs, which would give away his presence. There had already been some clucking, squawking and grunting when the visitor banged the gate, knocked and then spoke loudly. The hens, the ducks he could hear quacking and the pigs must have been badly disturbed already by the bombs and gunfire. He decided he would wait for a while.
He kept glancing at the luminous dial of his wrist-watch. Every minute seemed to be 120 seconds long. Crouching was uncomfortable and he was becoming stiff in the legs.
A woman screamed inside the house, and screamed again. A man shouted, there was the sound of furniture overturned and the shattering of glass or china. Two women’s voices came from the house now, both raised in screaming and weeping, accusations and rage. He could hear the man again, bellowing in an outburst of temper, and then a sudden apogee of noise, a medley of women shrieking and the man roaring. It stopped abruptly and then the terrible, rending cry of a woman in mortal distress was repeated again and again and the man uttered one more terrible shout. The door was dragged back and the German who had gone in some minutes earlier now lurched out, bare-headed. He ran towards the gate, where Yardley was hiding under the shadow of a tree, about to make off on the cycle. The girl ran after him and Yardley could see the moonlight glint on a knife in her hand.
The German ran strai
ght into Yardley and Yardley clubbed him on the head with his revolver butt.
The girl saw Yardley and froze. He saw her mouth open to yell again and before she could do so he leaped forward, clamped one hand over her mouth and with the other twisted the knife from her grasp. There was fresh blood on his clothes.
“Inside!” he ordered, pushing her in front of him.
She made no resistance. Her wide-eyed stare, which had been as terrified and enraged as an ill-treated animal’s, was on him; she peered over her shoulder as he bustled her indoors. But she lost her look of horror and anguish and he could feel her lips moving against the palm of his glove. He moved his hand a little and she said quietly, “It’s all right: I won’t scream. I promise. My God! Why couldn’t you have got here a few minutes sooner?”
It was hardly the reception he had expected.
*
The Gratz family had left at nine on the excuse that the two youngest children were on their own at home. Ilse and her mother were glad to see them go: Ilse because Uwe irritated her more than ever, her mother because she was embarrassed. The more curt and impertinent Ilse was to Uwe the more complacently and patronisingly he grinned at her. And the more drunkenly. They had started with schnapps before dinner, during the meal they had drunk wine to which Gratz father and son had helped themselves copiously, and after it Frau Nauroth had put a bottle of brandy on the table.
When the three guests set off to walk the three-quarters of a mile home, both men were unsteady and laughing stupidly at each other’s jokes. Frau Gratz, who had drunk more than usual, to cover her discomfiture at the exchanges between her son and Ilse, was giggly.
“Go to bed, Mutti,” Ilse said. “You have had a trying day. I’ll do the washing-up.”
“I’ll have to let you, dear. I couldn’t stay on my feet another minute.”
Even if you could, you wouldn’t, thought Ilse. You’re cross with me because I’ll have none of that damned Uwe.
Ilse was in bed when the guns protecting the junction opened fire and the wicked thought at once came to her that an English bomb on the Gratz home would be most welcome. When she heard the bomb bursting she had other thoughts: that another one close to the house would be the last straw after all she had had to put up with today.
As before, her mother called out to her and she hurried to her room. Once again she could not resist her curiosity and she drew the curtains aside, stood at the window and watched, telling her mother what was going on. She saw one of the British machines shoot down a balloon and then saw it stagger down the sky.
“One of the enemy aeroplanes is coming down,” she exclaimed.
Her mother groaned. “God forbid it lands on top of us.”
“Why should it, Mutti? We’re well out of the way.” She got into bed beside her mother. “I’ll stay here until you fall asleep, Mutti.”
Then she heard the gate and the door knocker and knew at once who had come. “It must be that damned nuisance of an Uwe. Let him knock.”
“Please, dear,” her mother protested. “Go and send him away or he’ll keep knocking.”
Ilse went down and was about to give her unwelcome caller a flea in his ear when he shoved her aside and lurched in.
The look on his face was different from any she had seen there before. His eyes were more glazed than when he had left. He and his father must have been drinking after they reached home. His lips were wet and quivering, his breathing was laboured. But above all it was the look in his eyes that frightened her.
“There is no need for you to stay,” she said. “We are both perfectly safe and not at all frightened.” She attempted a smile. “We are getting used to air raids.”
He stood close to her, exhaling fumes of brandy. “You are frightened. I can see it in your eyes.” He laughed and his strong, pudgy fingers kneaded her arms. “Frightened of me, this time, perhaps?”
“Please go away, go home.”
“Such hospitality! After I’ve come all this way again on a cold night. And braved the bombs out in the open.”
“Very good of you. Now please go.”
“How about a cup of coffee or cocoa to warm me up? Or some brandy?”
He took her by the wrist and pulled her towards the parlour.
Ilse cried out. “No! Uwe. The brandy isn’t in there.”
“To hell with the brandy.”
He dragged her into the room and kicked the door shut. She resisted the urge to scream, for her mother’s sake. Uwe spun her round to face him, put an arm about her, pressed his lips to hers and with his free hand pulled her dressing-gown aside and fumbled for her breasts. She bit him on the mouth and he yelled in pain and anger.
He threw her onto the sofa and fell on her, thrusting a hand under the skirt of her nightdress, ripping at his trouser buttons. She began screaming and rolled away from him to reach for a vase on a small table. She picked it up and brought it down on his head as hard as she could manage; which was not very hard, for she had too little room.
He shouted again and jerked away, upsetting a table and another vase.
Frau Nauroth got out of bed and dragged herself to the landing, from where she looked down and started screaming.
“What’s the matter, Ilse? Uwe Gratz, what are you doing to her?”
The parlour door swung open and Ilse ran out of it towards the kitchen. Her mother shrieked again. Uwe was a pace behind her and grabbed at her. He pulled her down onto the floor and Frau Nauroth saw that his fly buttons were open and his hand was fumbling there while the other hand tore at her daughter’s nightgown. She screamed, clutched both hands to her heart, fell forward and pitched head-first down the stairs.
Uwe, startled, yelled and began to scramble off Ilse. Ilse picked herself up and dashed to the kitchen. When Uwe caught up with her she was ready for him with a knife in her hand. He lunged at her and she stabbed it into his stomach. He reeled away and she stabbed him again. He turned and ran from the room with Ilse at his heels. She stabbed him a third time between the shoulder-blades before he wrenched the door open and stumbled down the path into Yardley’s revolver butt.
*
As soon as they were inside the house and the door was shut, Yardley saw the inert woman sprawled at the foot of the stairs.
“My God! What happened?”
Ilse clung to his arm. “My mother... that brute tried to rape me... she saw... fainted and fell... Oh, God Almighty in Heaven, help us all.” She released her grip on Yardley’s arm and ran to her mother, knelt beside her and made little crooning, soothing noises as she cradled her mother’s head.
Yardley knelt beside her. He put a hand on the woman’s pulse, then approached his cheek to her mouth. There was neither heartbeat nor breath.
“Your mother is dead,” he said gently.
Ilse began to cry, her whole body racked with her sobs.
“Is there anyone else in the house?”
“No.”
“I will go and attend to that brute outside. Then I will go on my way...”
“No!” To his astonishment it was an appeal for help and comfort. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her pretty face was contorted with sorrow. “Don’t go... you are English?”
“Of course. I must hurry...”
“No. You will be safe here... only... only move him... and his bicycle... down the road towards the town... the way he was coming... you must have seen him come... throw them in the ditch. Don’t forget his cap: no one must know he came inside. It’s on the floor... there.”
Yardley hesitated for a moment. She was distraught and as soon as he had gone she might change her mind and raise the alarm in some way.
“Go,” she urged. “You can trust me. I hate that animal... I am grateful to you.”
But when Yardley went out to look at Gratz he found that the girl owed him no gratitude. Whether or not his blow with the revolver had been heavy enough to kill him, he would have bled to death anyway. The ground was soaked with blood and, from the amount, Yardley
decided that it was not the bash on the head which had killed his enemy. His heart must have gone on pumping for some minutes after that for so much blood to have flowed.
There was no point in trying to cover anything up by moving the body. He returned along the path and found several splodges of blood on it. He went inside and she was standing at the door, waiting for him.
“He’s dead. It would be useless to move him: there is blood all over where he fell. Some on the path. Can you get me a broom?”
“Wait. I will bring one.”
She came back a moment later and, having switched off the light, followed him to the door. She looked up at the sky.
“It is going to snow again. That will cover everything.”
“They will think I killed him and went on my way. What must we do about your mother?”
He reminds me of that handsome officer at the concert the night I went with Uwe, she thought. She shuddered, recalling what Uwe had done, and what he had tried to do, to her just a few minutes ago.
“I must tell the doctor. I will say she was coming down for a cup of cocoa, fainted and fell. It is almost the truth. That damned pigdog killed her, shocking her into fainting. But for that, he would have succeeded in raping me.”
“We can’t leave your mother lying there.” He was being very gentle and solicitous and she moved closer to him.
“There is blood on your clothes. Are you wounded?” Her voice was genuinely concerned.
“My observer was killed. I lifted him out of the aeroplane. But your mother... we cannot leave her lying there.”
“We cannot carry her upstairs, either. No one must know you have been here. Light though she is, I could not have carried her up alone. I will drag her to the parlour and try to put her on the sofa.”
He looked shocked. “I’ll help you to carry her. You can tell the doctor you did it on your own.”
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