The Man who Missed the War

by Dennis Wheatley

  They had already decided that to fail to take a meal might arouse suspicion, so, loath as they were to spend any of their remaining time with the Atzlanteans, they went to the Mess, fed as quickly as they could, then retired to their room. Their next tour of duty did not start till nine o’clock, so they had over four hours in which to be together undisturbed.

  Both of them had been a little worried about this interval, fearing that they might be overcome by thoughts of the results to themselves if the thing they contemplated should break down; but they began to talk of the way they had played each other up during their first weeks on the launch, then of the great happiness that had been theirs during the two and a quarter years they had lived as husband and wife in the valley of the Little People, and almost before they realised it the final hours had sped.

  Philip had already greased his pistol and seen that it was in proper working order. He now took it from the old knapsack in which they had brought it from the valley, and hid it securely under the folds of the loose tunic he was wearing. Gloria slid into his arms, and for a few moments they embraced closely. As she relaxed, she murmured:

  ‘You’ll not let those fiends get me, Boy, will you?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, a trifle hoarsely. ‘I’ll keep a bullet for you as I promised, whatever happens. It will be very quick.’

  ‘Sure it will. I’m not frightened of that. ‘Tis no more than thousands of our boys will be getting in these next few hours, so we’ll be in good company. May the Blessed Saints give us our courage to the last. That’s all I’m asking.’

  ‘I think they’ll do that for us.’ He smiled, and added to rally her: ‘But will they forgive you for living in sin for two and a half years with a Protestant? That’s far more important.’

  ‘Oh, Boy!’ She smiled back. ‘What a dear fool you are! They’d never be holding out on me over a thing like that when there was no priest to marry us. And if they did I’d boycott them so I would. They can keep their heaven if they won’t let me bring you into it!’

  Again they had a quick snack in the Mess for the sake of appearances, then went to the screening room. Old, bent and evil Zadok came in to take control himself; black-browed Arkitl was at the instrument board. As Philip and Gloria sat down side by side on two of the stools, thick-lipped Quetzl and the woman Velig sat down opposite them. The old blind operator took his place before the mesh of wires and spinning gyroscope, Zadok gave his instructions, and the screening began.

  As the lights dimmed the silvery, frosted screen began to vibrate, and the first humming of the sound track impinged upon the silence; then the vibrating lessened and the ripples took its place until on the gently undulating surface a picture began to appear.

  It was the crowded ante-room of the R.A.F. mess. Every one of the scores of leather arm-chairs in it was occupied now that dinner was over, and the room was hazy with tobacco smoke; but its occupants were not settling down to read books or papers tonight. The soldiers were exchanging addresses with the airmen and cracking jokes as they made plans for great reunions after the job was over. Some were seated at the desks writing letters to their loved ones, others were smoking a last pipe or knocking back a last pint before going out to the battle.

  No roomful of men could have been more representative of the British Empire; the Dominions were well to the fore, and there were a number of Colonials. In the great babel of sound Philip could catch snatches of speech in accents ranging from Oxford to Glasgow, Dublin to Devon, and Cardiff to Cockney London.

  The picture shifted to the big entrance hall. This, too, was crowded. Gathered round a table were the two Generals, the Air Vice-Marshal, Wing-Commander Macnamara, the Planner from London, a Major and young ‘Tom’, General Gale’s A.D.C. On the table was a hock bottle, the long neck of which was wrapped in gold foil as though it were champagne.

  Quetzl, who for some time past had acted only as checker to Philip, remained silent while the latter began to make his report.

  ‘They are about to drink success to the enterprise in a bottle of wine produced by the man from London. The Major’s name is Griffiths. He is the pilot of General Gale’s glider. Macnamara will pilot the aircraft that tows the glider. General Crawford is to fly in and back with him. “Holly”, as they call the little Air Vice-Marshal, is going in another aircraft. He reminds me rather of a Roman Emperor as he sits there sipping his wine.

  ‘Apparently he is a connoisseur of hock. They are all remarking that it is something quite exceptional. They say it is very heavy—like a liqueur—like Imperial Tokay. It’s called Ruppertsberg Hoheburg Gewurztraminer Feinste Edelbeer-Auslese 1920. I think that’s what General Crawford said when he picked up the bottle and read out the label just now. The red-faced chap who produced it is laughing. He says he always calls it Pharoah’s Wine, because he doesn’t believe that anything like it has been vintaged since the Golden Age.

  ‘Another Major has joined the party. He is the Divisional Intelligence Officer. He, Gale and the man from London are now talking about the forthcoming operation. The Planner says he thinks the real crisis will come in about a week, when the Germans have had sufficient time to mass for a counter-attack in force, and the Allies are still building up over the beaches.

  ‘The General disagrees. He puts his faith in the immense air superiority of the Allies and the fact that the R.A.F. have already destroyed all the bridges over the Seine. He says that the bulk of Rommel’s forces will now have to come right round Paris. That wherever they mass the Tactical Air Forces will find them and break them up. He says that, if the Allies can secure their first objectives, he does not think there will be any need to worry.

  ‘Group-Captain Surplice has just come in. He is about to make a tour of the aerodrome in his car. The party is breaking up. A stream of officers is now leaving the ante-room. They are going to put on their flying-clothes and collect their equipment.’

  As Philip stopped talking the picture began to move about carrying them from place to place, only pausing for a moment or two here and there. Outside the weather was still not good, but it had improved a little; there were breaks between the clouds, and the twilight faded almost imperceptibly into moonlight. The paratroops in their camp were getting into their harness and blacking their faces so that they looked like demons. The Control Room was full of officers and W.A.A.F.s taking constant telephone calls, typing records and checking signals. On the aerodrome scores of ground crews were now getting the aircraft for the first wave into position. The Station Commander’s car had put him down at the Watch Tower, where he was now standing with three Wing-Commanders. The picture came to rest, and after listening for a few seconds Philip said:

  ‘The first wave is to consist of fourteen paratroop-carrying aircraft, followed by four aircraft towing gliders containing special material needed as soon as possible after the paratroops have landed—explosives for blowing up the bridges, and so on. The wave is to be led by Wing-Commander Bangay, and the Air Vice-Marshal is going with him. They are to take off at three minutes past eleven.’

  At this point Zadok stopped the picture and walked down the room to speak to Arkitl. They examined some of the instruments together. Then Zadok came back and said to Philip:

  ‘The skies over the Normandy beaches are clear under two thousand feet, with broken cloud above which would let the moonlight through, so that the pilots should be able to pick up their dropping zones without difficulty. But we shall alter that. We can force the cloud down to five hundred feet. If they have to work by instruments some of the paratroop-carrying aircraft may lose themselves, and in any case the gliders will break away and fall in the sea.’

  Philip nodded and dug his nails into the palms of his hands under his tunic, as he strove to control his anger at this foul and murderous design. He knew enough about aeronautics to realise that the accurate dropping of parachutists on a given spot was a difficult-enough business even under good conditions in daylight, and that, unless a glider pilot could see the tail of the p
lane that was towing him, his glider would get out of control, begin to swing and after a few minutes snap her towing-rope. Thick, low cloud was the one thing absolutely guaranteed to render this airborne operation abortive and make at least fifty per cent of the men engaged in it casualties before they had even landed in France. Yet it was just the sort of thing that he had expected Zadok to lay on.

  When the screening was resumed they returned to the Watch Tower. The aircraft of the first wave were all lined up, and they now began to take off. With a great roar of engines each of the fourteen paratroop-carrying aircraft raced past at thirty-second intervals and lifted into the air; they were followed at one-minute intervals by the four tugs each towing a glider containing the special material that the paratroops would need so urgently on their arrival. In eleven minutes the first wave, the spearhead of the mighty invasion, had taken off without the slightest hitch.

  Zadok stopped the screening again and gave an order. Arkitl pulled over a lever, the red vapour swirled into the retort. When it was full he threw the lever back again. The effect would be operative over the Normandy coast in half an hour’s time. The aircraft would take approximately seventy minutes to get there from the time of their take-off, so the cloud would be down over the coast long before they reached it.

  When the screening was resumed once more the picture travelled about the aerodrome again. In the Control Room Philip picked up the news that the Air Commander-in-Chief was making a midnight tour of his principal airfields and was expected in at any moment. The aerodrome was swiftly cleared, and shortly afterwards Sir Trafford Leigh-Mallory arrived in his private plane. The Station Commander received him and took him over to the Mess where they had a short talk with the two Generals. Then the Air Marshal returned to his aircraft and was whisked away into the darkness of the night sky.

  The picture now moved into the dark empty spaces above the Channel. Nothing was to be seen below, but through the sound track there came the noise of a sharp rhythmical drumming.

  ‘Someone is beating a drum, somewhere,’ said Philip, ‘but I can’t imagine where it can be.’

  Zadok looked across at him, and the old Atzlantean’s face was creased into a sneering snarl as he replied: ‘That is Drake’s Drum you can hear. Drake sailed with his ships again last night from Plymouth Hoe. He and Nelson, Beatty, Rodney and the rest mean to throw the dark shadow of the fleets they once commanded between the invading forces and the German patrol boats that might yet give warning where the Anglo-Americans mean to strike.’

  There was nothing that Philip or Gloria could say, but they were immeasurably heartened by this great gleam of brightness in this dark night’s work. Yet a few moments later they were plunged in gloom again.

  The operator had located the first wave of the Airborne Division. It was about ten miles off the French coast. Grimly Philip began to record.

  ‘The aircraft of the first wave are keeping station well at about fifteen hundred feet, but there is a bank of heavy cloud ahead of them. The leading aircraft is diving now in an attempt to get beneath it. The rest follow suit. They can’t make it. The cloud is too low for them to dare go under it. The pilots are cursing, but they are going through. The glider tugs are entering the clouds now. We are still about five miles from the coast of France. They’ve gone down to about eight hundred feet, but are still in thick cloud. It’s like a fog. The glider pilots can no longer see the tails of their tugs. They can no longer make their gliders follow the action of the tugs. They are beginning to sway. Did you hear that report? One of the towing-ropes has snapped; There goes another! The aircraft are flying on, but the two gliders are adrift. A third tow-rope has snapped. The three gliders are planing down towards the sea. The first one has hit it with a splash. There goes the second. We’re almost over the coast now. The fourth rope has snapped, and the last glider is now adrift too. The third one has crashed in shallow water. I’m following the fourth one down. He’ll never be able to reach his proper landing-place. There! He’s smashed up in the middle of an orchard. We’re three or four miles inland now—perhaps more. But there’s no flak. What are the Germans up to? Are they all asleep? They must be able to hear the roar of the aircraft engines?’

  It’s those accursed women and the poets!’ Zadok broke in.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Philip, startled by the interruption.

  ‘Why, all the non-combatants, of course,’ Zadok snarled. ‘Don’t you understand? All of what we term “The Mighty Dead” are out tonight. Those who did not fight physically in life rarely wield the flaming sword when they return. But they have other weapons. All the artists, statesmen and writers of a score of nations, who were rebels in their time, have wooed the Germans into sleep with fair, deceptive dreams. The musicians of ten centuries are stopping their ears with dream music, and the thousand million women, who have always longed for peace, are pressing in one vast pall upon their eyes. But this is only the beginning. There is a limit to what the dead can do, and the final decision must be reached by those who are living now. If we can hamstring the invasion, Hitler and Shaitan will triumph yet. Go on now! Keep on recording.’

  ‘The paratroops are going down,’ said Philip. ‘A lot of them are off the mark. They’re pretty widely spread: Ah! There’s a flak gun—and another. Some of the Germans have got into action at last. There is a tremendous roaring behind us now. Can we turn back a little? Yes, it’s a great force of heavy bombers coming in over the coast. They’re putting down their bombs. God! What a flash! That must have been an eight-thousand-pounder. And another—and another! Right dead on the battery that could have enfiladed the assault beaches. There they go again! Huge white flashes! There can’t be much living down there now. That’s one job the Airborne Forces won’t have to bother about! The paratroop-dropping aircraft are turning back now. There’s quite a lot of flak. Three, six, eight, ten, eleven. Where are the others? Yes, there they are. All fourteen are safely out and heading for the coast of England.’

  Zadok broke the picture. ‘Not too bad,’ he commented, after a moment. ‘We compelled the paratroops to scatter so that they’ll have great difficulty now in finding their rallying-points in the dark, and we prevented all four gliders from getting in, so the paratroops have been rendered almost ineffective through the loss of their special materials. If only we can do as well with the main body and send the General’s glider crashing into the sea, we shall have achieved a ninety per cent success. The Germans will only have to mop up the stragglers in the morning. Let us see what is happening at the aerodrome.’

  A series of pictures showed them the Mess, the Control Room, the Watch Tower and various other parts of the faintly moonlit R.A.F. Station. At last, they located General Gale with his A.D.C. and a number of other officers in the men’s camp, drinking beer with them. They were all laughing and in the best of spirits, little knowing that many of their comrades were already drowned or hopelessly lost in the Normandy cider-apple orchards. After a time they began to make their way towards their respective gliders, and, as the Generals left them to walk over to his, there was a great burst of cheering, and scores of the tough, black-faced paratroops spontaneously broke into the chorus of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.’

  Another little party had already rendezvoused at the General’s glider to wish him good luck, among them the Station Commander and the man from London. Philip then began to record.

  ‘General Gale is still wearing his jodhpurs, and he now looks a more massive figure than ever. The innumerable pockets of his special kit are bulging with maps and all the other things he will need when he lands in France. Over everything else he is putting on a light-coloured mackintosh. Wing-Commander Macnamara and General Crawford are just saying good-bye to him. He is joking with Macnamara. The second wave is to consist of twenty-five Albemarle aircraft, all towing gliders. Macnamara is to lead them in, and the General is saying that he’ll break his neck next time they meet if he lets anyone get ahead of him so that his glider does not fetch down first.r />
  ‘Macnamara and General Crawford are now walking across the grass to the other limb of a V in which two runways meet, on which their aircraft is parked. General Gale’s officers are saying that he ought to put on his Mae-West—that’s what they call the life-saving jacket that one blows up. He says he can put it on later if necessary. They say it would be a bit tricky if he leaves it to the last moment, when the glider might be diving head foremost into the sea.

  ‘He turns to the man from London and gives that deep laugh of his, as he says: “I’m supposed to be commanding this damn’ Division, yet just look how these fellows bully me!” Then he says to the others: “All right. I’ll put it on if you like.”

  ‘Several people are now helping him into it. Tom is saying to him: “The tapes should go up as high under your shoulders as possible, sir.”

  ‘He is burbling with laughter again. He has just said: “I know what you’re up to! If we fall in the water you want my head to go under and my bottom to be left sticking up in the air!” Now he’s slapping his enormous inflated chest and exclaiming: “Good God! Look at me! I must look like Henry the Eighth!”

  ‘The man from London is pointing to the huge chalked letters on the nose of the glider, just under its number—Seventy. He says: “I know you christened your glider Richard the First because you, Richard Gale, will be the first British General to land in France for many hours; but it ought to have been Richard Cœur-de-Lion, because he was just such another big man, and you are leading another Crusade.”

  ‘They are ready to emplane now, and all saying good-bye. Group-Captain Surplice has come forward with a tin of Golden Syrup. Apparently the General saw some on the breakfast table a few mornings ago and exclaimed: “By jove, I love Golden Syrup, and I haven’t seen any for years!” They are all laughing now as he accepts the tin and thanks the Station Commander for his hospitality. The man from London is pressing a sealed tin of chocolates into the A.D.C.’s hand to eat on the flight. They are clambering in. The doors of the glider have been closed.