“It’s a Top Secret and extremely important,” she added. “Guard it with your life, won’t you?”
What could I do but give her my promise.
In the evening I said good-bye to Terence with genuine regret. He had been a wonderful friend to me, had never asked me a single question about my recent doings and had done all he possibly could to make me happy and comfortable. A quarter of an hour later I reported to the Air Force office. After having my papers checked I sat down and waited for transport to the airport. The clerk looked up and said curtly, “You’d better wait outside with the others.”
As if a press-button had been touched I stood up and with hands clasped behind me I barked: “You will be respectful to a commissioned officer. When you address an officer you will say ‘sir’.”
He sat there gaping at me. “Stand to attention!” I snapped. At once he got up and stood to attention looking distinctly scared. Only when I turned and left him did I realize that I had spoken in the exact manner of General Montgomery.
There was no doubt that I had changed in some curious way and had cultivated a genuine feeling of superiority. Since shedding my General’s uniform I had tried hard to get rid of this, but more than once while staying with Terence I had seen a peculiar look on his face and I had realized that I had slipped back into the Monty role. It is true that earlier on I had felt timid and diffident at times, but as soon as I heard the news of our successful landing in Normandy, relief and confidence flowed into me and the Monty Manner came to me only too easily.
My flight from England as General Montgomery had been fantastic. My return flight was no less fantastic, but in quite a different way.
The first fellow travellers to meet my eye were a couple of disconsolate-looking Privates of the D.L.I. who were sitting on the ground with their backs to a wall. I squatted down, beside them with a bright “Good evening”, at which they eyed me apathetically. One of them replied “’Ow do”, the other muttered “B——Farook”. They looked completely brainless and almost identical, in my mind I nicknamed them Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
Presently a taxi drew up and spilled out a couple of naval officers each of whom clutched a bulging suitcase. They embraced one another for support, roared out a verse of a bawdy song and were propelled into the office by an obliging military policeman. Five R.A.F. men made up our complement of ten.
An Air Force truck, came along to convey us to the airport. Tweedledum and Tweedledee clambered in, followed by the naval officers who were hoisted aboard by the driver and the military policeman rather like milk churns on to a farm lorry. Both of them at once went to sleep. On being woken up at the airport they were in a smouldering temper which burst into flames when they were told in the checking-room that their bags were over-weight. In true naval fashion they cursed the N.C.O. in charge, but the latter stuck to his guns and refused to give way.
Then an extraordinary thing happened. Suddenly snatching up their suitcases they ran to the plane with the N.C.O. running after them. Their attitude was so threatening that on nearing the aircraft the N.C.O. thought better of it and ran back to the Control Building for help. Quickly the naval men opened their cases and decanted a quantity of contraband into their overcoats which they folded up and thrust under the seats of the plane. Before long the N.C.O. arrived with a haughty-looking officer and the Navy with its baggage was conducted back to the Control Building.
Having followed this real life drama thus far I put my money on the Navy. The bags were weighed again and found to be under weight. The officer gave the unfortunate N.C.O. a most unmerited ‘rocket’ and the Navy made a triumphal return with flags flying. In silent admiration the rest of us watched these two heroes repack their cases at leisure with about £100-worth of contraband apiece and then make themselves comfortable for the journey.
As I boarded the plane I saw on my left a big heap of parcels and mail-bags with one or two R.A.F. men settled on top of the heap like moles. On the other side six iron bucket-seats were placed close together. With my precious parcel under my arm I wedged myself into one of these seats, but it was impossible to get into a comfortable position.
From the conversation I overheard I realized with some dismay that we were about to take off in an ancient Dakota. The best opinion seemed to be that we had a fifty-fifty chance of getting home without crashing.
The outer doors closed, and after a pause the door opened which led to the navigator’s cabin. A fair-haired, middle-aged pilot stood in the doorway and behind him I saw another elderly officer with glasses. With dark rings under their eyes and pale, drawn faces they looked more like winners of a nonstop dancing competition than R.A.F. pilots.
“Now, you chaps,” the first one began in a weary voice, “we’re just going to take off. There’ll be one stop in the morning before we reach Gib. This kite’s got no guns, so if we’re attacked just hang on. If we come down in the Drink you’ll find a hand-axe in her tail. One of you get hold of it and hack your way out.” The officer behind him added: “And somebody release the dinghy. It may float.”
The first one yawned: “Sorry if I seem a bit sleepy. Neither of us has had any sleep for five nights. We’ve been flying backwards and forwards for a week between India and Ceylon—without any kip.”
He swayed dizzily against the door. “Don’t any of you touch the emergency door-handle on the right. Last week some B.F. leaned on it and two chaps fell out.”
He gave us a wintry smile, yawned and disappeared with his companion. The explanation was that the Invasion had started and such pilots and planes as were not involved in it were working overtime.
After the silence which greeted this cheering news, Tweedledum croaked, “Eh, ba goom, I was leaning on t’bloody handle all the time ’e was talkin’.” Tweedledee merely grunted “B——Farook”.
One of the naval men muttered irritably: “Emergency handle my foot. If they don’t hurry up and take off we’ll chuck these silly old bastards out and fly the damn thing ourselves.”
“Eh, I ’ope not. We’ll never get ’ome if you do,” said Tweedledum.
Up jumped the naval officer. “Hey, what was that?” he shouted angrily. “Stand up so I can see you.”
Tweedledum and Tweedledee gaped at him stupidly and slowly rose to their feet. The naval officer took a step towards them, but at this moment the engines started so sulkily that drunk as he was he had qualms about whether we should ever leave the ground. He passed a trembling hand across his brow and stumbled back to his seat.
Tweedledee said “B——Farook” and sat down. Tweedledum followed his example.
Chapter XVII
FANTASTIC FLIGHT HOME
That night I found it difficult to sleep. With the iron seat digging into my back, my knees wedged against the seat in front of me and my Top Secret parcel sticking into my ribs, it was impossible for me to get into a comfortable position. At times I was very much tempted to throw the wretched parcel out of the window and only a high sense of duty prevented me from doing this.
All through the night we droned on, every now and again striking an air-pocket and falling like a celluloid ball in a shooting-gallery. As dawn broke I could see the desert far below us stretched like a Wilton carpet.
Round about 7.0 a.m. we came down and landed at Castel Benito. It was a desolate spot. Beyond the runway were a few huts and tents. The heat was already terrific.
We must have looked a bedraggled party as we made out way to some water-taps sticking out of the sand. Depositing my parcel close beside me, I stripped to the waist, had a good wash and began to shave. The two naval men were doing the same thing at the next tap.
Suddenly one of them began to jump up and down, slapping himself and using the most lurid language, and at the same moment I felt a sting on my stomach. Looking down I saw a Commando contingent of huge ants swarming up my leg. Beating them off as best I could I finished my shave in record time and went to the mess tent where an Italian waiter, a prisoner of war, served us wit
h an extremely greasy breakfast and some black coffee. Our pilot and navigator with their tired, drawn faces looked literally at the last gasp. It was a wonder to me they had managed to get us even this far without disaster.
We passengers all drifted back to the plane, took our seats and settled down for the flight to Gibraltar. After sitting there for half an hour the Navy began to grow restless.
“What in hell do those two so-and-so’s think they’re doing?” one of them growled. “Why can’t we get cracking?”
Another ten minutes went by and they both decided to go and see what was happening. I followed them to a tent, inside which we found the pilot and the navigator sprawled over a table sound asleep with their heads buried in their arms. An R.A.F. Sergeant was shaking them and shouting, “Wake up, sir. Come along, sir, you’re late already,” while the Italian waiter was gesticulating and exclaiming, “Sapristi!”
The two naval men pushed the Sergeant aside, shook the unhappy pilot and navigator like terriers shaking rats, stood them up and slapped their faces. The two sleepers moaned a little and started to go to sleep again, their heads lolling like those of sawdust soldiers. One of the naval men took a jug of water and flung it in their faces, but even this did little to rouse them.
We stood there looking at the poor devils and wondering what would happen next. It seemed as if we should have to apply for a couple of replacements to take us back to England. With the Invasion now in full swing and every transport plane in full use for ferrying troops and stores, I suppose we were lucky to get any aircraft at all. But with an unconscious crew it was about as much use as a flying carpet without the magic word to make it fly.
Once again the resourcefulness of the Navy came to our rescue. One of the officers sent the waiter for a siphon of soda water, and when it was brought he pushed the nozzle into the pilot’s nostril and squirted. The poor chap choked and coughed and opened his eyes. A few more squirts and he was awake at last. The navigator received similar treatment and he too was dragged back from the Land of Nod.
“What’s happening?” the pilot asked querulously. “Can’t a chap have five minutes’ rest without being drowned in soda water?”
“We’ll drown you in something else if you don’t get cracking,” said the naval man.
“Hell!” exclaimed the pilot feebly. “Are we crossing the line, or what?”
“You’d better cross your fingers in case we stop treating you like a little brother and get tough with you,” was the reply.
Still bickering, we made our way hack to the plane and at last took off.
Some time later I was looking down at the Rock. Opening the inter-connecting door the pilot called out, “Get your belts on, it’s a bit bumpy over Gib.”
This was an understatement. The old Dakota bucked like a bronco and once or twice dropped so far that it felt like falling down a well.
We landed, and soon I was standing on the identical spot where I had said good-bye to Sir Ralph Eastwood, in place of the Governor, a red-faced Major strode up to us and eyed us with disfavour.
“Now then,” he cried, “don’t hang about here. Come on, follow me—and make it snappy.”
“Who the hell are you talking to?” asked the Navy. As I discovered later, these two naval officers had been rescued from a wrecked submarine and their nerves and tempers were none too good.
The Major’s face turned a shade redder. “Cut that out,” he snapped. “I’m in charge here. Come on, get a move on.”
Growling like a seedy dog the naval man followed him to the Control Building. The D.L.I. were delighted to see the Navy worsted for once.
“’E’s got that stinker taped,” chuckled Tweedledum under his breath.
“Aye,” replied Tweedledee, and he added his usual signature-phrase.
After our papers had been checked the Major lined us up and reading out our names from a list, allotted us our billets. We were to wait until a plane was ready to take us on to England. Apparently the authorities had at last awakened to the fact that our crew were in a state of somnambulism and had given orders for them to be given a short rest.
Having had little sleep ourselves, we passengers were hardly less weary, and hearing that my billet was in the Bristol Hotel I asked the Major if there was any chance of transport.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” he snorted. “A Field Marshal? Make your own way on foot.”
At once I drew myself up, clasped my hands behind my hack and was just about to snap out something in the Monty Manner when one of the naval men got in front of me.
“If you don’t get us transport,” he said, “I shall put in a complaint to the Naval Commander-in-Chief. You can do what you like about it.” And he turned away.
The Major didn’t like this at all, and after some blustering to save his face be promised to get us transport right away. While awaiting its arrival we went along to the canteen.
Leaning against the counter I heard a voice with a foreign accent: “Please? What can I get, sir?” I looked up and saw a middle-aged man with white hair, very bushy eyebrows and piercing grey eyes.
Tweedledum said, “You’re a long way from ’ome, chum.”
“Many miles,” was the reply, “I am from Norway.”
Something connected up in my tired mind and I turned quickly away. I wondered what he would have said if I had asked him how Plan 303 was getting on.
A lorry arrived at last and we all got in. It took us through those same streets where crowds had lined the route on my departure from Gib. only a week or two before.
My room at the Bristol Hotel proved to be a cheerless, bare place with an oleograph of Queen Victoria hanging on the wall and two camp beds, on one of which an Army officer lay snoring. I lay down on the other bed and closed my eyes, but I couldn’t sleep a wink.
I began to think of lunch, and suddenly I remembered that only 30 piastres remained of my £E20. How could I pay for lunch or anything else? What would happen to me when I got back to England with nothing in my pockets?
Staring across the room I saw on the opposite wall a framed notice. I can’t remember the wording, but it said in effect that anyone in monetary difficulties could change his money at the Royal Army Pay Corps office. Some wag had scrawled underneath it, “If you haven’t any money to change, pop your dentures.”
This was all very well, but if I went to the Pay Office I might easily run into some officer I had known in Leicester who would ask me awkward questions. I was still under an oath of secrecy and I meant to keep this oath until MI 5 released me from it. With my Top Secret parcel under my arm—a parcel I was beginning to detest—I slipped out of the hotel and then wondered what to do next.
I could hardly go to Government House and ask Sir Ralph for the loan of a couple of pounds. Eventually I enquired from a Corporal in the Signals the way to the Chief Security Officer in Gib.; for I knew that he, at any rate, would have been in the know about the Impersonation.
At the police-station in Main Street I asked the military policeman at the door if I could see the Security Officer. He looked at me in astonishment.
“Sorry, sir, nobody can see him without an appointment. Can I help you?”
“This is a very personal matter,” I explained. “It’s really important.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me what it is.”
“Rot!” I snapped, clasping my hands behind my back. “You will tell him that I wish to see him at once.”
He looked startled. In a different tone he said: “All right, sir, I’ll do my best. If you’re willing to risk it I’ll take a chance on it and ask him.”
I followed him upstairs to a room where some more military police were waiting. Asking me to leave my precious parcel in his charge, he knocked on the Chief’s door and went in. Presently he came out again breathing rather heavily.
“I wouldn’t care to be you, sir, if your business isn’t important,” he confided in a low voice.
He knocked at the door again,
a deep voice growled “Come in!” and in I went.
I found myself in a barely furnished office seeing an Army Colonel who was seated at his desk. He was one of the fiercest-looking men I have ever seen, with a huge bristling black moustache.
“Well?” he began, glaring at me. “What do you want?”
He looked so threatening that I was petrified.
“Come on, speak up,” he went on.
“Weil, sir, it’s about money. I haven’t any, and I thought perhaps you could—”
“No money!” he roared. “Can’t you read the notices?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“If you want money, go to the Pay Office. Now get out!”
Instead of leaving his office I drew myself up and looked at him almost as fiercely as he had looked at me. For a few moments we stared at each other in silence. In clipped accents I said,“I think you’re making a mistake.”
I saw amazement, anger, incredulity cross his face in rapid succession. He continued to stare at me, and presently his face relaxed and broke into a smile.
“Good Lord! My dear chap—now I know who you are. Why on earth didn’t they send me a message from Cairo that you were on your way here?”
He got up and shook my hand. “What a marvellous show you put up! I shall never forget it. I hear the Governor is still chuckling about it.”
Over a cigarette he asked, “Well, what can I do for you?”
I explained that I had no money and dared not go to the Pay Office where I might meet someone who would recognize me.
“Of course, my dear boy. How much do you want?”
He took ten pounds out of his safe and handed them to me. “Will this be enough?”
“Plenty, thank you, sir. It’s very kind of you.”
“Not at all. Delighted.”
We chatted for a while about the Impersonation and he gave me, some news about how my bogus Top Secrets had flown round the enemy capitals. When I got up to go be came out of his office and stood for a moment with his hand on my shoulder before saying good-bye to me, as if I had been a life-long friend. This was not the first time I had noticed that fire-eaters are usually warm-hearted men.
I WAS MONTY’S DOUBLE Page 16