Attack Alarm (23 page)

We moved along the house to the left and made open country in the shadow of the barn. As soon as we were in the heather I broke into a trot. I could just see the clump of gorse bushes behind which the lorries had passed. It took us only a few minutes to reach it, and about a hundred yards farther on we came upon a grass track half grown over with heather. Though the ground was hard it was possible to see the tracks of the lorries faintly marked where the wheels had beaten down heather and grass. It looked like the path that had forked off from the Cold Harbour Farm track.

We set off down it in the direction from which the lorries had come. We hadn’t gone far before we had to go to cover in order to let three more lorries rumble past. “Here, wot’s the idea?” Micky demanded as we scrambled out of the heather and regained the track. “Them was R.A.F. lorries.”

“That’s what we’ve got to find out,” I said.

I was quite convinced now that I was on to something. Obviously if Vayle wanted to-get something, such as arms or explosives, with which to assist an air landing, into our fighter ’dromes, he had to use R.A.F. lorries and men in R.A.F. uniform driving them. Provided they had the necessary passes, they would be admitted to the aerodromes. No questions would be asked and the lorries would not be searched.

Almost unconsciously I had increased the pace until at last the track bore away to the right and dipped into a big gravel pit. We left the path here and, crouching low, struck farther right, keeping to the level ground until at last we came out on the edge of the pit. We wormed our way forward until we could look over the edge.

Micky gasped as he crawled up beside me. Parked
in the pit below us were more than thirty big R.A.F. lorries. At the time I wondered how they had managed to obtain so many Air Force vehicles. Later I learnt that the organisation included men in the motor transport section of most of the fighter stations. The place seemed alive with men in R.A.F. uniforms. Some were sergeants, but mostly they were just aircraftmen. I saw no officers. The lorries were being loaded with what appeared to be large compressed-air cylinders. They looked very much like the hydrogen cylinders used for inflating barrage balloons. They were being brought from a hole in the far side of the pit. There were big piles of gravel on either side of the entrance, suggesting that the cache had been hidden by a heap of this gravel.

The lorries nearest the entrance to the pit appeared to have been loaded up. The drivers of the first three stood in a group chatting, obviously waiting for the order to move off. Many of the aircraftmen engaged in loading the lorries farther down the line had belts with revolvers in holsters. There were guards armed with rifles at the entrance to the pit where the ground rose to the level of the surrounding heath, and there were also several patrolling the edge of the pit. This caused me some uneasiness and I kept an eye on our rear and flank. But there seemed to be no guard near where we lay.

Then from behind one of the lorries walked a figure that I knew. It was Vayle. I recognised his quick, purposeful walk despite the officer’s uniform he wore. He went straight up the line of lorries to the drivers of the first three. Some twenty men followed him. I would have given anything to hear what he said to those men. The conversation did not last more than a minute. Then he glanced at his watch and a second later they had climbed into the lorries and the engines came to life. The men who had followed him piled
into the backs of the lorries, about seven to each. The gears of the first grated and it swung out of the line towards the entrance. The other two followed. A moment later they disappeared and the sound of their engines gradually faded on the still night air.

Vayle came back along the line of lorries. His step was light and buoyant. There was pride and confidence in that step. I didn’t like it. He came over to our side of the pit. I thrust my head a little farther forward so that I could see directly below me. Four men were standing there, silent, their hands and feet restless. Vayle walked straight up to them. “Any questions?” he asked. His voice, crisp and commanding, was just audible to me. “Good. The time is exactly one forty-six.” He had waited for the precise minute, looking all the time at what appeared to be a stop-watch. They checked their watches by his. The timing was apparently an important factor. “You’re quite clear about everything?” They nodded. “Make certain that the smoke containers are well covered. Argue rather than shoot. And see that the runway is clearly indicated. Fifty feet is the height. All right?” Again they nodded. “You’d better start, then. Good luck to you.” They saluted. It was an Air Force salute, but somehow it was not quite an English salute—the body was too tense, the heels pressed too tightly together. They moved off to the next four lorries. Men began to pile into the back of them, again seven to each lorry.

“Don’t move!”

The order came from behind us. My heart was in my mouth as I turned my head. Standing over us were three men. Two were guards. They had us covered with their rifles. The third was a civilian, and he had a revolver. It was he who had spoken. “Stand up!” he ordered.

We clambered to our feet. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Just watching,” I said, wondering what attitude to adopt. “What’s going on?”

“That’s none of your business,” was the reply. “This is R.A.F. property. I shall have to hold you both until we prove your identity.”

“What is this—secret?” I asked.

He did not answer my question. “See if they’re armed,” he told one of the guards. “Put up your hands.” The man stepped forward and ran his fingers quickly over us. “Unarmed,” he reported.

“All right. Take them away and see that they don’t escape. We’ll deal with them later.”

“Wot’s the idea?” Micky demanded. “We ain’t doing no ’arm. If this is private property, why don’t you put a fence round it?”

“Take ’em away,” the man commanded, and the two guards closed in on either side of us.

To attempt escape was out of the question. They would pick us off before we had gone a dozen yards. And to wait for a chance that would probably never occur was equally hopeless, since minutes had become vital. The lorries were moving off, batch by batch, to a definite schedule. I knew something now of what the plan was—smoke to hamper ground defences as parachutists and troop carriers were landed on our most vital aerodromes. Something had to be done, and done quickly. “I want to speak to Mr. Vayle,” I said. The man’s quick glance of surprise did not escape me. “It’s important,” I added.

“I don’t get you.” The man’s voice was wooden. He was giving nothing away.

“You understand perfectly,” I replied.

“Who is Mr. Vayle?”

“Will you stop arguing,” I said angrily. “In case you are not aware of it, your officer’s name is Vayle,
and he is librarian at Thorby aerodrome. Now will you kindly take me to him at once. There’s no time to waste.”

“What do you want to see him for?”

“That is a matter between him and myself,” I replied.

He hesitated. Then he said, “All right.”

We were escorted along the edge of the pit, the two guards on either side and our civilian captor bringing up the rear. We entered the pit by way of the track. As we walked down the line of lorries, the men standing about fell silent. There were signs of nervousness in their interest. I was not surprised. It was a perilous game they were playing. It meant death if they were caught, and death was a possibility even if their plan succeeded.

Vayle turned as we came up to him. He was watching the loading of the last few lorries. He showed no surprise at the sight of us—only anger. “What the hell have you brought these men here for, Perret?”

“They got away from the house, as you expected, sir,” replied our guard. “I arrested them at the edge of the pit over there.”

“Yes, yes. But why the devil must you bother me with them? You know your orders. Take ’em away!”

“Yes, sir. But this man”—he indicated me—“knew your name and insisted that he must see you. He said it was important.”

Vayle swung round on me. “Well, what is it, Hanson?” he demanded sharply.

He was impatient at our intrusion. This was his big moment. He had worked for this for the past six years. He had made provision for everything—even for me. I could understand his irritation.

“I thought you might be interested to know that the game is up. The authorities at Thorby know the
whole plot.” It was thin, but it was the best I could do on the spur of the moment.

The lift of his thick eyebrows proclaimed his disbelief. He had planned carefully and his confidence was unshakable. I felt myself getting rattled. “You tried to kill me,” I went on. “But you didn’t succeed.” Then I suddenly remembered. “I told Winton everything. He didn’t believe me at first. But when I showed him the diagram that was planted on me, he was sufficiently convinced to take precautions.”

As soon as I mentioned that diagram I saw a sudden doubt mirrored in his eyes. He hesitated. Then he laughed. It was an easy, natural laugh. “It’s no good, Hanson. If Winton really had taken precautions, why should you bother to warn me? Why should you have come out here at all?” He glanced at his watch. “Excuse me a moment.” He left us and went down the line to give his blessing to the next group of lorries.

As soon as they had left, he came back to where we stood waiting. He was smiling and his eyes, which rested for a moment on mine, were cold. “Well, Hanson,” he said, “this is the parting of the ways, I think. I go on—I hope—to a great victory, a victory that will make even the collapse of France look small. In a sense it will be my victory, for this is my scheme, and without the fighter ’dromes we could not invade Britain.”

He paused, and for a moment he was no longer with us. His eyes had a far-away look. He was gazing at the castle of victory that his imagination had built for him. And then suddenly his eyes snapped out of their trance and became alive again. “And you,” he said, “you go on” He spread his hands in a singularly foreign gesture. “I am sorry,” he went on. “I admire your nerve and brains. You saw something that others could not. And when you tried to tell them
they wouldn’t listen. It’s a pity that you weren’t content to sleep peacefully at Cold Harbour in the belief that you were mistaken. I knew Ryan would fool you. He’s a sweet old man. And so right in that setting. Did he talk to you about the Boer War?”

I nodded.

“I thought so. But I expect he omitted to mention the fact that he fought for the Boers, not the English. When he rang through to me, he told me that all your suspicions of the place had been allayed. What revived them? Was it the lorries?”

Again I nodded.

“Yes, I was afraid of that. It was my reason for having Perret watch you.” Once again he glanced at his watch. “Well,” he said, “your activities have added a certain zest to the game. I am glad to have known you. Good-bye.” He bowed quite naturally and quite seriously. Then he addressed the man called Perret. “Get ’em into their lorry and drive it back past the Roebuck on to the hill down into Forest Row. There’s quite a steep drop on the first bend; tip it over there and set fire to it. You understand?”

“I understand, sir.”

The tone of the man’s voice was significant. Vayle turned away. The matter was settled. It was not even a tense moment. There was nothing to grip one’s imagination. There was nothing emotional or stirring about his words. The order had been given quietly, matter-of-factly. It might have been an ordinary everyday matter. Yet, in fact, it was cold-blooded murder. And the strange thing was there was nothing sinister about Vayle, no animosity in the way he spoke. I could not hate him. I even found it difficult to blame him. Micky and I were just pawns that threatened his queen, pieces of grit that could mar the smooth-working machinery of his scheme. It was necessary that we should die. In the interests oi his country he
had given the necessary orders. He had shown no morbid interest in our reaction to his death sentence. He had made no attempt to gloat over our wretchedness. It made murder seem so natural. Two slugs had got in his cabbage patch and he had trodden on them.

That was my first reaction—surprise at murder done without feeling. But fear followed as we stumbled between our guards across the heath. Perret led us straight back to our lorry. It was quite evident that he knew exactly where it was. At first I could barely realise that those quiet, simple words of Vayle’s meant that we should be dead in a few minutes’ time. But after we had been trussed with ropes and bundled into the back of the lorry with a tarpaulin over us, I began to grasp the full significance of those orders. “and set fire to it.” Should we still be alive when they did that? Was death by fire quick? I began to shiver. What was it like to die? I had never thought about it much. It all seemed so incredible. If only I had fallen asleep like Micky and had never heard the lorries grinding across the heath. Yet if Vayle’s plan succeeded, all our gun team would probably be dead, too, in an hour’s time.

I rolled over in the darkness. “Micky!” I spoke softly, for I knew one of the guards had come in the back of the lorry with us. “Micky!”

“Wot is it?” His voice sounded hoarse and strained.

“I’m sorry, Micky,” I said. “I didn’t think it would end like this.”

He did not answer. I felt he must be angry. He had every right to be. “Micky,” I said again. “I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. It’s just one of those things. A bit of luck and we’d have pulled off something big. He was too clever for us.”

I heard him say something, but his words were lost in the jolting of the lorry as it gathered speed on the
rough lane leading down to the main road. “What did you say?” I asked.

I suddenly found his face close to mine. “Stop shooting yer mouth off, can’t you,” he said quietly. “I’m lying on your jack-knife. It must ’ave fallen out of your pocket when they pitched us in ’ere. I’m trying to open it.”

I lay still, not daring to hope, wondering what chance we had even if we did manage to cut ourselves out of the rope that bound our arms and legs. It was pitch dark under the tarpaulin, and it smelt strongly of malt. The jolting of the lorry hurt my shoulder. I wriggled over on to my other side. As I did so the lorry swung sharp left, flinging me on to my back and banging my head against the floor boards. After that the going was smoother. We had turned on to the main road. I leaned over towards Micky. “We’ve only got about four minutes,” I said.