Pursuit of Passy

by David Moore Crook

  ******

  The moon was rising and as I lay in the bomb-aimer's position in the nose of the Whitley I could see the English countryside slipping gently beneath us like a great silver pattern on which streams and fields and roads and villages were all clearly etched. Here and there the dim lights of a car moved along a country road and the red glow from the driver's cab of a railway engine was shown up by a shower of sparks as the fireman threw on more coal.

  We climbed over Essex towards the south, crossed the Thames somewhere near Gravesend and quarter of an hour later the English coast fell away behind us. We were flying at about 7,000 feet and the Channel lay spread out below, calm, silver, and with a dappled surface rather like a pewter salver. It was all very lovely and very peaceful.

  Ahead of us lay the dark line of the French coast and as we crossed it I could see the rocky, deeply indented cliffs near Dieppe. There was still no sign of the enemy. Perhaps he isn't troubling about single aircraft, I thought hopefully.

  For another ten minutes we flew on steadily over the silent countryside and then suddenly a searchlight sprang out of the darkness ahead of us. The beam swayed erratically across the sky searching for us, and a moment later a number of other searchlights exposed and commenced to probe methodically through the darkness like great white fingers.

  Millard evidently thought it was time for a little evasive action and he turned away to the left. We had just straightened out of the turn when one searchlight swung over towards us and there was a brilliant light inside the aircraft as the beam actually caught us. We were exposed only for a second and the beam continued its sweep but the spotters on the ground must have seen us for the light swung back quickly and as though controlled by some unseen hand all the other beams suddenly concentrated round the Whitley. They found us almost immediately and every detail of the aircraft was shown up by the blinding light.

  I tried to look down but could see only numerous points of intensely white light and I looked away hastily to avoid being dazzled. Millard was taking violent evasive action now and the aircraft was turning and twisting so sharply that I was thrown against the side of the fuselage but still the lights held on to us.

  It was a horrid naked sort of feeling being exposed like that and knowing that scores of enemy eyes were fixed on you but yet being quite powerless to evade them.

  Finally Millard put the nose down and we dived hard. The trick seemed to work, or perhaps we were now beyond the group of lights for almost immediately the beams lost us and flickered aimlessly behind. John's voice came over the intercom. “Good show, chaps, we've got away.” He sounded relieved, I thought. So was I.

  I was just making myself comfortable again when another very urgent voice broke in on the intercom. “Enemy fighter coming in, starboard quarter.” Millard replied quickly, “O.K., O.K.” and we turned to starboard and dived. A few seconds later I saw a stream of tracer and incendiary bullets flying past the wing and then felt a couple of thuds and dull explosions.

  The aircraft lurched violently and went into a very steep dive. We recovered, turned to the right and then dived again and finally pulled out a few hundred feet from the ground. I tried to call Millard on the intercom but it must have been cut for it was absolutely dead so I struggled to my feet and crawled past Carnac to the pilot's seat. Carnac was sitting in the same place apparently quite calm and unperturbed. I said, “Are you O.K.?” and he smiled and nodded.

  I went back to Millard. “Are we O.K.?” I shouted. He leaned over slightly, still keeping his eyes fixed on the sky ahead and said: “We’ve been hit but I don't know what the damage is. The port engine's getting bloody hot.”

  I leaned across and looked at the radiator temperature. It was 110° and still rising. The oil pressure was normal and it looked as though the radiator must have been hit.

  “What do you want to do?” I said. “We’ll never make Laon with that engine.”

  “Not flaming likely. We'll have to turn back and try to get home. What do you want to do?”

  “Can you make any height before the engine packs up? We can't bale out as low as this.”

  “I’ll try,” he said. “I think we've shaken off that ruddy fighter now. Do you want to come back to England or bale out?”

  “If you can get over a thousand feet we'll bale out. The sooner the better because if you've got to forced land we'll probably be caught and then Carnac and I will be shot.”

  I felt a tap on the shoulder and turned round. The navigator was standing just behind me. He shouted to Millard, “Cocky’s been hit. I'm afraid he's pretty bad.”

  “Damn,” said Millard calmly. “Go back and do what you can for him. We're climbing up to let these two bale out and then we're cracking straight home.”

  The navigator grunted and went off again. I shouted to Millard, “I’ll go and see if I can help,” and followed him down the aircraft to the rear turret. The navigator was struggling to pull the wounded gunner out of the turret but there was so little room I couldn't help him. Over his shoulder I could see the splintered perspex of the turret shining against the moonlit sky. It looked as though several bullets had come through.

  The navigator heaved backwards with his arms round the wounded man's chest and drew him out. We lay him on the floor and by the light of a torch took off his parachute harness and Irvin jacket. He'd been hit in the shoulder and his jacket was covered in blood. There was another wound in his leg. I thought he was pretty badly hurt. He was in considerable pain though only semi-conscious and he kept groaning and muttering to himself. The navigator ripped open a first aid packet and prepared to give him a shot of morphia.

  I was still trying to take off the man's tunic when the wireless operator came down and told me to go forward. I went back to Millard.

  “You’d better get ready,” he said. “We’re just over fifteen hundred feet now and the engine may blow up at any time.”

  I seized my parachute pack and snapped it on to my harness and then went forward to Carnac.

  “We’ll have to get out now,” I said. “One engine's been hit and we mustn't be found near the aircraft if they have to land.”

  “Merde,” he said. “It is bad to commence like this. Where are we?”

  “I don't know exactly but somewhere near Rouen. We'll try to pick up some landmark for a rendezvous after landing but if not we'll just have to make our own way to Dr. Mendel at Laon and meet there. O.K.? “

  “Yes,” he said. He clipped on his parachute pack and stood ready.

  I climbed back to Millard. Several searchlights were waving ahead of the aircraft. It struck me that our position was anything but healthy.

  “All set?” said Millard.

  “Yes absolutely,” I replied. “Well, bye-bye Johnny and thanks for the lift. Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Have a drink with me when you get back.”

  I was just turning to go when I saw over his shoulder a great sheet of orange flame burst from the port engine. It had packed up at last, good and proper. The flames leapt up from the cowling and streamed back over the wing.

  Millard saw it too. “Bloody hell!” he shouted savagely. “Get out quickly—go on.”

  I jumped down again and opened the escape hatch in the floor. Carnac was standing there waiting.

  “Quick!” I said, “we’re on fire.” He sat down on the floor with his legs dangling through the hatch. “Laon,” he shouted. I nodded. He put his hands on the edge of the hatch, lowered himself down and then suddenly his hands disappeared. He had gone.

  I sat down and put my legs through. A blinding light came up in my face and the Whitley started to dive. Hell, the searchlights have got us again. It's too easy for them with that great sheet of flame coming out of the engine; we must look like a great Roman Candle in the sky. There was a terrific blast of air as I swung down through the hatch and then I let go and dropped away from the aircraft into the darkness.

  My first impression was that everything had grown strangely
quiet now that the vibration and drumming of the aircraft had ceased. Also I must have started somersaulting almost immediately because the brilliant points of light from the ground were rotating crazily round my head.

  There was very little height to spare and I pulled the rip cord quickly and felt the sudden check as the parachute drew out.

  I was perhaps a thousand feet from the ground now, swinging gently to and fro like a pendulum and just about to try and examine the ground below when a searchlight beam swept across me in a blinding flash. It passed me and then swung back and held me, and several more lights joined it.

  They'd seen the parachute all right. I was now thoroughly desperate. Scores of enemy eyes would be watching the great white canopy as I floated down and there was nothing I could do to avoid them, simply nothing. Already men would be moving across the ground below to intercept me.

  I glanced round wildly but could see very little as I was completely dazzled by the glare of the lights. Suddenly the beams left me. For a second I couldn't understand this and then realised that it was because I was almost on the ground and they couldn't depress their beams any lower.

  Now that the glare had vanished my eyes were able to pick up details of the ground below and I tried to fix a quick picture of it in my mind. The country seemed to be very open, with fields and hedges, a few trees and here and there a small copse. On one side a small river gleamed like a silver thread in the moonlight. The searchlights were rather further away than I had thought at first, and a vague, desperate hope rose in my mind that I might still have a chance of getting away if only I made a safe landing. To be caught in a tree or sprain an ankle would be fatal. Quite literally, fatal.

  A moment later the dark mass of the ground came up to meet me with a sudden rush and I landed heavily in long grass and rolled over. I picked myself up in a flash, noted with quick relief that my legs were unhurt and took off my parachute harness. Even seconds were going to count now.

  The searchlight beams were still visible above some trees and I decided that the first thing to do was to get as far as possible from the searchlight positions and their crews. There was no point in concealing the parachute as we had been warned to do. The Hun knew perfectly well that somebody had baled out from the aircraft and they also knew to within a few hundred yards the position to search.

  I turned and started to run across the field. By great good fortune I had dropped into a corn field which had broken my fall, but the long corn now made progress rather difficult and to my anxious ears the swish of the grass past my legs seemed loud enough to rouse the whole countryside. I reached a wire fence at the end of the field, paused a moment to recover my breath and listened intently for any sounds of pursuit.

  In the deep silence I could hear nothing but the agitated thumping of my heart, and somewhat reassured I scrambled over the fence and set off across another field as fast as I could.

  I was beginning to realise with dismay that my physical condition, which is generally pretty hard, was not at the moment all it should have been; probably three weeks inactivity following the wound in my leg was the cause. I knew that any chances of evading capture in the next few hours would probably depend to a great extent on sheer physical endurance and I could see that I was going to have to push myself to the limit.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I was wondering what had happened to all the others but I can't say I was worrying very much. Millard at any rate had a sporting chance of getting back on one engine, and even if they had to land and were caught they were only prisoners of war which was a very different matter from being a spy. And Carnac should be all right. I knew he hadn't been spotted by the searchlights and probably he had managed to land unobserved. Not more than thirty seconds had elapsed before I followed him through the hatch and therefore he must be within a mile or so of my position, but it was hopeless to try and make contact with him in the dark. In any case he was well able to take care of himself.

  I came to the end of another field and a gate which led into a rough cart track. I peered cautiously over the gate but everything was still quiet and I climbed over and walked quickly along the track. It was narrow with high hedges on either side and seemed to offer better cover than the open fields. The moon was nearly full and visibility was good—far too good for my liking. A really black night would have made escape much easier.

  I had gone perhaps a hundred yards along the track when I stopped very suddenly and listened, every sense keyed up to an almost unbearable pitch. There was no mistaking the distant hum of several cars. They seemed to be getting nearer, but as I couldn't see any lights and had no idea where the road lay I couldn't be certain.

  The noise was more distinct now. It was certainly approaching. I debated hastily what to do. The cars might be merely on a routine drive but it seemed more likely to me that a search party had been collected and sent down as quickly as possible to the approximate position where the parachute had been seen. It was no use trying to run away because I didn't know in which direction to go, and in any case a man running is bound to make a certain amount of noise which not only gives away his own position but stops him hearing other movements.

  I forced my way through the hedge, got back into a field and worked my way cautiously along a hedge till I came to a ditch in the corner which seemed fairly dry. It was as good a hiding place as any and I decided to lie up for a few minutes and see what happened. I eased myself in and lay down with my head just above ground level.

  For a few minutes nothing happened. There was no noise from the cars and they had either stopped or else were out of earshot. I waited a little longer and was just beginning to think that the coast was clear enough for me to move when I heard the sound of voices, followed a moment later by footsteps quite near me. Very, very slowly I inched my head up and saw the light of torches moving up the track I had just left. It was impossible to tell how many men there were, but by the voices and footsteps I thought at least a dozen. I wondered quickly how they had managed to track me down so promptly. Most likely the track would be marked on their maps and they had left their transport on the road and taken the track as the easiest method of getting across the fields. I began to curse myself for not hiding my parachute in a ditch. It wasn't more than five hundred yards away and once they found it they would know they were getting warm.

  The voices died away up the lane. I waited a few minutes longer and then decided I must move despite the risk. In two hours it would be dawn and if I were still in that open countryside in daylight I shouldn't last five minutes. There was no cover at all and not a hope in hell of evading a thorough search. And the search would be thorough; I was under no delusions about that.

  Very gently I lifted myself out of the ditch and started to crawl along the line of the hedge until I came to the corner of the field. Here another problem rose. I wanted to get as far away as possible from the track and to do so I had to get out of this field, but there was no gate and to climb the hedge inevitably meant some noise and the possibility of being seen. The hedge was too thick to crawl under.

  I was lying there wondering whether to take the risk when I heard somewhere behind me a man coughing and then the shuffle of feet. It sounded as though he was in the lane. I hadn't realised there was anybody so near. Probably the search party had left men posted at intervals all along the track to stop any escape in that direction. It was very lucky that I had just got across in time but I dare not move again while he was so close.

  I lay there absolutely motionless for what seemed an age, all the time getting more and more desperate. Every moment I stayed here decreased the chance of escape and I was still within fifty yards of the enemy, absolutely pinned down by this confounded sentry who didn't even realise how close he was.

  Suddenly I heard a whistle in the distance, followed by a lot of shouting. They've found the parachute, I thought. Now they must realise I'm not far away. Still the faithful sentry in the lane never moved. I couldn't see him but I heard him shuffling h
is feet occasionally.

  An idea suddenly flashed across my mind, a memory of days when we were children playing hide and seek in the garden. It was a risky trick it might work with luck and distract his attention for ten vital seconds. Very cautiously I groped my hand along the hedge till I found what I wanted, a good sized stone. I raised myself to a kneeling position and hurled the stone towards the lane, aiming well to the right of the sentry. A good thud broke the silence. The man said something very sharply and I heard his footsteps break into a run.

  It was now or never. I jumped to my feet, ran a few paces at the hedge and hurled myself over. I scraped heavily through the top and landed on my arms and shoulders on the far side in fairly soft ground. I lay for a moment listening but heard nothing. The sentry was probably doing the same and wondering what the hell had caused that noise. I picked myself up and crouching almost double ran along the hedge and through a gate into another field.

  I walked on rapidly for about half a mile and then emerged in a road and paused for a moment, weighing the extra risk of travelling along the road against the greater speed that it would allow, and finally decided that the risk must be accepted. I simply had to be several miles away by dawn and I reckoned that I could nip off the road quickly if I heard anything coming.

  It was a mistake that very nearly finished me.