The Thirty-One Kings

by Robert J. Harris

  ‘I suppose our own reception is just as unpredictable,’ said Jaikie.

  Years ago I had flown with Archie as an observer, spying out the enemy positions, and I found myself almost unconsciously slipping back into that role, noting bridges, crossroads and other vital points on the ground below. I spotted a body of men moving in column to the east and reported this to Archie. ‘I can’t make out which side they belong to,’ I told him.

  ‘Good,’ said Archie. ‘That means they can’t tell who we are either.’

  Even so, he brought us down to fifteen hundred feet to lessen the risk of our being silhouetted against the open sky. Skirting the town of Blangy, we followed a railway line southwards. Suddenly a booming series of smoky detonations darkened the sky to our left.

  ‘Don’t bother about that,’ Archie scoffed. ‘Just Jerry chancing a few pot shots. Of course, once they get their ack-ack properly set up, it will be a different story.’

  I continued to keep a sharp lookout, which was why I was the first to spot the incoming planes.

  ‘Bogeys at ten o’clock,’ I informed Archie.

  There were three of them, well above our height and moving fast. As they drew nearer Archie squinted up at them.

  ‘Rest easy,’ he said. ‘That’s one of our lads in a Hurricane leading the way.’

  ‘And the two following him?’ Jaikie wondered.

  As the British plane passed over us we saw the gun-metal grey of his pursuers and the distinctive crosses marking their wings. Both of them loosed off a volley of machine-gun fire at their quarry.

  ‘Messerschmitts,’ Archie grunted in a tone he usually reserved for ill-mannered guests who were spoiling a party.

  The Hurricane pilot banked right and soared skywards out of range. One of the Messerschmitts followed him, guns still blazing. The other German peeled off and circled back towards us. He was in no apparent hurry, confident that we were easy prey.

  ‘Is this plane armed, sir?’ Jaikie enquired in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘I didn’t notice any weaponry.’

  Now that danger was upon us, rather than anticipated, he exhibited the same calm alertness that had struck me as so impressive during our adventure in London.

  ‘Afraid not,’ Archie apologised. ‘We had to chuck the guns in order to fit in an extra passenger and the larger fuel tank. Rather hoped we wouldn’t run into a scrap.’

  ‘Can we outrun him?’ I asked.

  ‘Not a chance,’ said Archie. ‘But not to worry. I’ve got a few tricks to throw at him.’

  The Messerschmitt was closing fast on our right flank, lining up to rake us from nose to tail. Archie gave a determined growl. ‘Hang on, chaps,’ he warned us. ‘Things are about to get bumpy.’

  8

  A SPORTING CHANCE

  Even as the enemy pilot unleashed a stream of bullets Archie threw us into a steep corkscrew dive. Taken by surprise, the German’s own momentum carried him past us as we spun towards the ground like a Catherine wheel.

  Green meadows rushed up to meet us until, at what felt like the last possible instant, Antonia levelled out. The next thing I knew, we were back on course and rapidly gaining altitude.

  Archie was keenly surveying the landscape, in search of I knew not what. It seemed to me that our only chance of survival was to continue dodging the enemy pilot until he ran out of ammunition - a very slim chance indeed.

  ‘I take it, Archie, you have some sort of plan in mind?’ I suggested as mildly as I could.

  ‘Working on it, old man, working on it,’ Archie assured me.

  He made a quarter turn and increased speed towards a ridge of high ground a few miles off. Jaikie kept watch astern and reported that the German was working his way back towards us.

  ‘Let’s give him something to think about.’ Archie sounded confident.

  We sped for the ridge at full throttle and as we crested the summit we went into a swan dive. The Blessed Antonia swooped down the reverse slope while the German overshot us again, spitting out a fruitless salvo as he passed.

  ‘Now,’ said Archie, as though resuming his earlier train of thought, ‘your German flier has two outstanding qualities: pride and determination. With a spot of luck I may be able to use both of those against him.’

  A rugged, wooded valley opened up ahead of us. Outlined briefly against the sun, the Messerschmitt executed a barrel roll and bore down on us again like a ravenous bird of prey.

  ‘He’s certainly persistent,’ I remarked.

  ‘He knows if he stays up too high he might lose sight of us,’ said Archie. ‘But the closer we both are to the ground, the less he can use his speed against us.’

  He raced Antonia up the valley as though he were guiding a horse on a steeplechase, taking advantage of every trough and hillock to throw the German off our tail. I could sense the tips of the tallest trees brushing against the undercarriage, as though Archie were deliberately making the manoeuvre as hazardous as possible.

  ‘More importantly,’ he continued, ‘he has to prove that he can match me. You’re about to see how determined he is to do that.’

  ‘Would that have anything to do with those dangerous obstacles up ahead?’ Jaikie wondered.

  I too was staring at the two tall outcrops of stone rising up like twin pillars out of the sea of trees.

  ‘Spot on, Jaikie,’ Archie approved. ‘You see, I told you I could make a flier out of you.’

  The gap ahead looked barely wide enough for our wingspan, and I couldn’t help but think of the fabled Clashing Rocks through which Jason had to steer his vessel without being smashed by their grinding jaws. Though I was pretty sure these rocks wouldn’t budge, our danger was increased by the fact that Archie had to waggle the plane from side to side to evade the bursts of machine-gun fire now coming directly from our rear. He muttered a few ungentlemanly words as several bullets struck home with a sound like hailstones beating on a window.

  I braced myself for disaster, but Archie kept us on course and we shot through the crags with only inches to spare. A rattle of gunfire behind us sent rock splinters flying and the Messerschmitt burst into view, her wings still intact.

  The terrain before us broadened out into farmland. A village lay directly in our path, a jumble of roofs encircling a medieval church. The lofty spire was crowned with a wrought-iron weather vane in the form of a cockerel.

  ‘That looks promising,’ said Archie, making a beeline for it.

  As we approached the spire, he swung Antonia abruptly around on her starboard wing, whipping us around the church in a tight arc. The manoeuvre put the tower between us and our pursuer just as he loosed off a stream of bullets that smacked the weather vane and sent it into a crazy spin.

  I thought for an instant the Messerschmitt might collide with the building but the pilot pulled her clear and roared angrily skywards in search of a fresh angle of attack.

  Archie headed southeast across country that was banded with woodland. The German was not long in joining us, matching us speed for speed. To my surprise he didn’t open fire. ‘Do you suppose his gun’s jammed?’ I wondered.

  Archie shook his head. ‘He’s low on ammo so he’s saving whatever’s left for a clear shot. We need to shake him off before he gets one.’

  We bobbed and weaved across the countryside then Archie exclaimed, ‘Is that a river over there?’

  I could see a glint of silver in the distance off to our left. ‘I believe you’re right.’

  ‘Well, that’s just the ticket,’ Archie declared, altering course towards it.

  The distant glimmer quickly expanded into a broad river flowing between steep embankments.

  ‘We’re not going to splash down, are we?’ Jaikie asked.

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ said Archie dismissively. ‘Where there’s a river, there’s bound to be a bridge.’

  We dropped to within a few feet of the water and held tightly to its course as though we were following a road. The German stayed doggedly on our tail. After a mile or two
we swung round a bend and saw ahead the very bridge Archie was hoping for.

  It was a modern affair, a utilitarian construction of steel set upon squat concrete pilings. Whistling tunelessly between his teeth, Archie aimed us directly at the space between the two central piers.

  ‘Archie, you can’t be serious,’ I breathed.

  ‘Never more so,’ he responded jovially.

  Our enemy was coming up behind, as unshakeable as a shadow.

  ‘Why doesn’t he finish us?’ asked Jaikie. ‘Surely he won’t get a better shot than this.’

  ‘As a fellow pilot he can see what I’m attempting,’ Archie laughed, ‘and it wouldn’t be sporting to interfere. He wants to see if we can make it.’

  ‘I’m quite interested in the result myself,’ I said.

  I confess there was a desperate prayer on my lips as that low horizontal slot came rushing towards us with the inexorable menace of a speeding train. It looked so cramped that any attempt to pass through must surely send us ploughing into the river.

  Then, at the most extreme instant, Archie deftly tilted our wings to the right and we shot through, lightly skimming the water below us. For a moment we were in shadow, then we burst out into the sunlight, alive and exultant.

  I twisted round just in time to see the German pursuing us relentlessly into the same gap. His obstinate pride proved to be his doom. His left wing tip struck the edge of the stonework, whipping the plane over in a violent cartwheel. It crashed against brick, steel and water then burst apart in a flash of flame and spark-filled smoke.

  Archie coasted back to review the wreckage and shook his head sadly.

  ‘He was a gallant foe,’ he said. ‘It’s a damned shame.’

  ‘He certainly had guts,’ Jaikie agreed.

  ‘Sometimes,’ I reflected, ‘even the worst of causes can be served by the very best of men.’

  ‘Here comes another one!’ Jaikie exclaimed.

  Another plane was swooping down on us, but Archie gave a chuckle of relief. ‘Nothing to worry about. It’s our old friend in the Hurricane.’

  Noting the remains of the downed Messerschmitt, the RAF man passed close enough for us to see the smile on his face as he gave us a triumphant thumbs-up. Archie returned the gesture and the Hurricane veered off in the direction of the Channel.

  ‘He must have dealt with his Messerschmitt too,’ I said.

  ‘Very decent of him to come and check on us,’ said Archie. ‘He’ll have barely enough fuel to get home now.’

  Our elation over our escape was suddenly displaced by a more pressing concern. The engine stuttered and the plane began to dip and sway.

  ‘She’s been pretty badly shot up,’ said Archie through gritted teeth. ‘Come on, old girl, up you go.’

  The Blessed Antonia fought gamely to regain a measure of lift, but I could hear the engine labouring.

  ‘We need a place to set down,’ Archie informed us. ‘I’ll gain as much height as I can, so that if she cuts out on us, we’ll be able to glide for a while.’

  I could see from the way he was struggling with the controls that he had his work cut out for him saving our necks.

  ‘Jerry’s shredded some of the control lines,’ he grunted, ‘and the engine’s taken a knock too.’

  We passed over two ranks of poplar trees lining a country road beyond which lay open pastureland.

  The propeller was only going by fits and starts and the engine was squealing and grinding as we swooped towards the ground at an alarming rate. We jolted down in a ploughed field with a series of bumps that set my teeth shaking. The Blessed Antonia rattled and creaked to a jarring halt that jerked us all forward in our seats.

  Archie’s voice sounded urgently. ‘Out we get! There’s a chance the fuel tank might blow!’

  Struggling free of our harnesses, we wrestled open the hood of the cockpit and scrambled out. Two strides from the plane Archie stumbled and fell. Jaikie and I snatched him up by the elbows and carried him with us to a safe distance. Behind us Antonia’s damaged engine gave up the fight and died.

  We paused for breath, leaning against a freestone wall. Archie grimaced in pain. Pulling himself together, he said, ‘Sorry, chaps, my dratted leg’s gone on me again.’

  I clapped him on the shoulder. ‘At least we’re all in one piece.’

  Jaikie’s eyes were aglow with the sheer delight of being alive. Patting his pocket, he gave us a lopsided grin. ‘I’m not the superstitious type,’ he said, ‘but I can’t help feeling this lucky feather of Alison’s had something to do with us getting down safely.’

  ‘I’m ready to credit anything from lucky charms to angels,’ I said, ‘but I think it’s mostly down to our pilot.’ Archie waved the tribute away. ‘Think nothing of it, Dick. Just basic flying, that’s all.’

  He tried to take a step but pulled up short with a groan of pain.

  ‘Just take a few minutes,’ I advised him.

  ‘I don’t think we have a few minutes,’ said Jaikie.

  With a nod of his head he directed our attention to a figure striding towards us across the field. It was a burly farmer in rustic clothing, a wide straw hat and heavy boots, carrying a double-barrelled shotgun. I was aware of the pistol under my jacket, but I decided against drawing it. We wouldn’t get far if we made enemies of the locals and, after all, we were trespassing on his land.

  The farmer levelled his shotgun and glared at us. His attitude was none too welcoming and I reflected that Archie might have been right about the ambiguous reception that would await us among our French allies.

  Halting a few paces away, he demanded truculently, ‘Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici? Vous êtes anglais?’

  Archie was in uniform, but Jaikie and I were in civvies, an incongruity that prompted the Frenchman to regard us with deep suspicion. The worrying thought occurred to me that perhaps the Germans had already overrun this stretch of country and that this man had thrown his lot in with his new masters.

  I was still trying to formulate a response when Jaikie took a small, unthreatening step forward. A smile of childlike innocence touched his lips. He pointed at the tricolour on our tail fin then tapped himself on the chest.

  ‘Je suis écossais.’

  ‘Écossais?’ the farmer repeated quizzically. He did not lower his shotgun but did appear affected by this reminder of the ancient ties of the Auld Alliance.

  In the most basic French Jaikie explained to him that we had been brought down in aerial combat but that we had destroyed our German enemy. Then he initiated the universal gesture of wartime friendship. He took out his crumpled pack of cigarettes and offered one to the farmer.

  After a momentary hesitation the Frenchman accepted it. He lowered his shotgun and leaned forward so that Jaikie could give him a light. Resting the weapon in the crook of his arm, he took a long draw and gestured at the plane. He told us the Germans were in the area and if this were spotted we would all be for the chop.

  ‘Look, if we can get her out of sight,’ said Archie, ‘I might be able to fix her up.’

  Jaikie and I discussed our problem with our new friend and he offered a solution. With the help of a mule, a carthorse and some tackle, he dragged the plane out of the mud while we pushed it from behind. After twenty minutes of strenuous manoeuvring the Blessed Antonia found a home in a barn behind the farmhouse.

  ‘I can see a bright future for you as a diplomat,’ I complimented Jaikie.

  ‘Just as well it worked,’ he said. ‘That was my last cigarette.’

  The Frenchman invited us into his kitchen. Here his wife, a squat, blunt-faced woman, stood at the stove intently stirring a pot of stew. She fixed a wary eye on us and kept a large, well-sharpened kitchen knife close to hand. Her husband gave her a silent signal that all was well but her stirring did not slow and her eye lost none of its watchfulness.

  Two boys of around ten and twelve sat rigidly at the table, clearly following orders to remain silent and out of the way. The farmer assured his child
ren that they had nothing to fear from us and they visibly relaxed. Then he brought out four unwashed glasses and poured a splash of wine into each. Raising his own he called out defiantly, ‘À la victoire!’

  We joined him in the toast, though at this point it seemed a forlorn hope. Once we had swallowed our wine Archie headed for the door.

  ‘I’m going to give Antonia a good look over and see what can be done.’

  As he limped outside I tried to recollect the French words for painkillers so that I could ask the farmer for some relief for our friend. He was pouring us each a second glass when there came the roar of an engine from outside.

  Jaikie darted to the window and peered out, taking care to keep himself out of sight. A dark frown creased his brow.

  ‘Germans!’

  9

  THE FALSE PRISONER

  I joined Jaikie at the window and saw two men on motorcycles roaring up the road towards the yard. They were both dressed in the distinctive grey uniforms of the Wehrmacht. Even if he had seen them in time, Archie, with his bad leg, had no chance of getting out of sight. They spotted him at once and drew up their bikes on either side of him, unslinging their submachine guns.

  ‘Outriders sent ahead to scout for enemy positions and sources of supply,’ I surmised.

  The farmer and his wife immediately moved to where their children were seated and placed protective hands on their shoulders.

  Jaikie reached under his jacket for his pistol. ‘We need to get out there.’

  ‘Yes, but not like that,’ I cautioned him. ‘If we run out, guns blazing, Archie will be the first to take a bullet.’

  I don’t think of myself as an especially brainy sort of fellow, but in times of crisis my thoughts seem to shift into a higher gear and ideas sometimes come to me with almost dazzling speed.

  ‘Look, I’ve got a notion that just might come off,’ I told Jaikie. ‘You need to take off your jacket and shirt.’

  In as few words as possible I explained the gist of my plan and Jaikie swiftly followed my instructions. Both of us discarded our shoulder holsters and, as a final touch, I borrowed the farmer’s hat and clapped it on my head. The two of us stepped outside, Jaikie in his vest and I in my shirt sleeves.