Lammas Night (63 page)

“In almost every respect, it's an ideal choice,” Ellis agreed, walking with Graham in the garden at Laurelgrove one evening late in August. “Planes crash with appalling regularity, especially in time of war. Doesn't he have several tours coming up in the next few weeks?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then. There's your answer. It can be arranged without danger of you being associated with it, without you needing to be present, and the results will certainly be swift and fatal.”

“I suppose.”

Graham continued walking when Ellis paused to light up his pipe, seeing the larger flames of a burning plane in the brigadier's match and not wanting to think about the man who would burn with it. He stopped at the edge of a fish pond and stared at the stars reflected in the water, seeing a hundred Garter stars shine back at him like glittering eyes. He flinched as Ellis laid a gnarled hand on his shoulder.

“What, in particular, bothers you about it, Gray?” Ellis asked softly. “Besides the obvious fact that you don't want to do it in the first place.”

Graham hung his head, jamming his hands into his pockets.

“I suppose it's the violence of it—and the terror for
him
just before it happens. Then there's the possibility of fire and—and mutilation.”

Sighing, Ellis puffed at his pipe and said nothing for several seconds, his hand kneading the taut muscles in the back of Graham's neck.

“I think he's going to know before the end ho matter what method you choose and no matter how carefully you try to conceal it from him,” the old man said softly. “There's nothing you or I or anyone else can do about that. He's chosen you; and when he wants to know, he'll know. I suspect that such knowledge somehow comes with the territory—as does the courage to put aside the terror.” He puffed again on his pipe before continuing.

“As for the other—well, I shouldn't want this to sound callous, but—what happens to the body will hardly make any difference to William once he's dead, will it?”

Graham sighed heavily. “I suppose you're right.”

“You know I am. On the other hand, what happens to the body makes a great deal of difference, ritually speaking. The fire doesn't matter, but it's very important that the victim's blood be spilled on the land. An air crash will ensure that.”

Graham could refute none of the brigadier's arguments. The more they explored, the more the air accident began to emerge as the most feasible possibility. The fact that the prince would not be alone in an air crash nagged at the back of Graham's conscience, for he had resigned himself only to arranging the death of the sacred king; but Ellis assured him that a crew could be found who were quite willing to accompany their prince on this all-important final mission, well aware of their impending fate and its significance.

“In ancient times, the sacred king often went to his death in the company of a band of honored warriors,” Ellis reminded him. “I think a hand-picked flight crew might fulfill a similar function.”

Graham shuddered at the very thought, but he could not spare too much energy worrying about that when he himself must wrestle with responsibility for slaying the sacred king—though he did flatly forbid Michael to volunteer as one of the prince's companions. While he began combing his resources for the most foolproof and untraceable means to down an aircraft, Ellis started making arrangements for the craft itself and a suitable crew. As requested, they did not tell the prince their plans, but they bracketed a one-week span in mid-September as their potential target period, with several contingency dates selected to coincide with William's heavy schedule of appearances. As the month began, Graham still prayed desperately that none of their preparations would be necessary.

But invasion began to appear more and more certain. To stop it, action must be taken soon. On September 3, four German spies were captured on the Kentish coast who claimed to be advance agents for an invasion to begin “at any moment now.” The next day, rumors flew that an invasion fleet had already sailed from Norway, though it never turned up. That night, Hitler addressed a wildly cheering crowd in Berlin's
Sportpalast
in a jubilant mood.

“When people are very curious in Britain and ask, ‘Yes, but why doesn't he come?' we reply: ‘Calm yourselves. He is coming! He is coming!'”

Throughout the German army, leaves were canceled. Fifteen divisions had been moved to ports facing England by the first of August, and more were set in position in the ensuing month. During that first grim week of September, RAF reconnaissance was able to confirm that preparations for invasion were definitely proceeding in the coastal areas of occupied France and the low countries. In addition to the landing barges already noted in August—in Ostend alone, the number of barges and other landing craft had increased from a few dozen to more than two hundred in only a week—more bombers and transport aircraft were moving in from Scandinavia to reinforce the German air fleets in Holland and Belgium. At Calais and other coastal air bases, support squadrons of the black Stuka dive bombers were massing, as well as the machines necessary for ferrying assault troops when the actual invasion came. On the seventh of September, the invasion seemed imminent.

The seventh was a Saturday and began like most recent days with a morning attack on a major forward base—Hawkinge, this time, where Audrey barely escaped injury. Further raids were expected in the afternoon on other sector stations and strategic targets.

But the afternoon attackers did not veer off for sector stations this time; they converged on London instead by the hundreds. By dusk, they had dumped more than three hundred tons of high explosives and incindiaries on the Woolwich Royal Arsenal and the eastside docklands, making a second sunset in the east before the defenders were convinced this was not another feint. As darkness fell, more waves of enemy bombers, guided by the raging fires, continued to attack. Surely the invasion had begun!

So strong was the threat on that terrible Saturday that began the blitz that the code word “Cromwell” was flashed to the southern and eastern commands of the British Home Forces—“Invasion imminent, and probably within twelve hours”—for it had always been assumed that the final step before actual invasion would be a massive air assault to break the RAF at last. Some Home Guard units misinterpreted the alert and sounded the alarm locally for actual invasion, the church bells pealing for the first time since the outbreak of the war in mistaken warning. Though no beach assaults or German paratroopers materialized, the Home Forces stood to all through the night, while the bombers continued to drop their loads on London, drawn by the beacon of the burning London docks.

The air raids continued day and night, all through the week. Nearly a thousand Londoners lost their lives in the first two days of bombing alone, but the survivors dug in and dug out with astonishing pluck, fighting the fires, tending their dead and wounded, and trying to restore essential services during the lulls in bombing, while life went on in as normal a fashion as possible. Sunday the eighth was another national day of prayer.

Intelligence information now indicated that the invasion would not be delayed beyond the fourteenth. The British Home Fleet prepared to steam south from Scapa to make a last stand in the Channel narrows. The army, still battered and ill equipped after the disastrous Dunkirk venture, stood by with the Home Guard and other civilian volunteers, women and children as well as men, to repel would-be invaders with pitchforks, pruning hooks, kitchen knives, golf clubs, and even rolling pins if need be, for firearms were still in short supply.

Fighter Command alone, reduced by more than a third from the fourteen hundred-plus pilots flying at the beginning of the Battle in mid-July, licked their wounds and thanked God for the relative respite for men, machines, and shattered airfields, now that the emphasis seemed to have shifted to the barrage of London. The danger was no less to individual pilots, for now they must try to turn back the daily waves of raiders bent on making London an inferno, but at least the air bases and the critical factories and radar installations received less German attention.

Weather gave the defenders brief morning respites for several days, but the nightly attacks increased throughout the week of the eighth. The ninth was as bad as the preceding two days for deaths and injuries. The previous night's bombings had devastated power stations, railways, and the already crippled docklands to the east.

On the night of the tenth, the London barrage finally opened up for the first time, the big guns flinging up a vast umbrella of reassuring flak while the searchlights speared the raiders in their revealing beams. Whether the fusillade did a great deal of damage to the enemy in those early nights is uncertain, but its positive effect on morale was immeasurable. At least Londoners felt that they were fighting back—and the German planes did fly higher. On the eleventh, even St. Paul's Cathedral and Buckingham Palace were damaged, explosions missing the royal residence area by mere feet.

That night, Graham and the prince sat in the visitors' gallery and heard the prime minister address the Commons again in a joint broadcast to the nation:

“If this invasion is to be tried at all, it does not seem that it can be long delayed. The weather may break at any time. Besides this, it is difficult for the enemy to keep these gatherings of ships waiting about indefinitely while they are bombed every night by our bombers, and very often shelled by our warships which are waiting for them outside.”

Graham and William exchanged troubled glances as the prime minister went on, for the situation was far worse than Churchill was saying.

“Therefore, we must regard the next week or so as a very important period in our history. It ranks with the days when the Spanish Armada was approaching the Channel, and Drake was finishing his game of bowls.” Graham watched the prince's eyebrows go up. “Or when Nelson stood between us and Napoleon's Grand Army at Boulogne. We have all read about this in the history books; but what is happening now is on a far greater scale and of far more consequence to the life and future of the world and its civilization than those brave old days.”

They walked back toward the Palace after the speech was over, collars buttoned close against a light mist, ducking into an air-raid shelter once when the sirens sounded and bombs began falling alarmingly close by. William was soon recognized and spent the next half hour shaking hands and talking with the local residents who had taken refuge there, commending them on their courage.

“Do you suppose old Winston knows?” William asked when the all-clear had sounded and they were walking on. “I mean, it seems odd that he should mention the Armada and Drake and Nelson just now, don't you think?”

Graham burrowed his hands deeper in his pockets and shrugged. “If he does, I doubt it's conscious,” he replied, wondering whether that were really true. He had met Churchill on numerous occasions and had always sensed just a hint of something well guarded beneath the surface. “He's a well-read man, an historian. I should have been surprised if he
hadn't
seen the historical parallels. Whether he's aware of more esoteric considerations is quite another question.”

“Hmmm, I dare say you're right. Still, it does seem odd.”

They stopped at Graham's office so he could check the afternoon and evening's signals, but they read nothing there to inspire new hope. William was silent as they walked the rest of the way to the Palace, and he had only two words for Graham after he bade him good night. Chilled, Graham watched the prince disappear through a briefly opened door. He gazed at the closed Palace gates for nearly half an hour before hailing a cab.

“He wants me to go ahead,” he said after he downed half a tot of whiskey that the brigadier gave him, pacing the floor of the sitting room in the old man's suite of rooms at his club. “I have the device. Which date do you fancy?”

“I think it has to be the sixteenth, on the flight to Wales,” Ellis replied after a slight pause. “The plane will be at Calshot on Saturday. You can rig it that night. I'll make the final arrangements for the crew.”

“All right.”

Graham slumped into a chair and sipped at his drink in silence for several minutes, trying not to think beyond the present, acutely aware of the old man's eyes upon him. When Ellis lifted the decanter in question, Graham shook his head and looked away.

“Thank you, no. I'll be all right. I don't think the rest of it will really hit me now until it's over. For the present, I think I've managed to convince myself that it's just another assignment.”

“That's probably best for now,” Ellis agreed, though his expression suggested that he did not really believe it. “How are you planning to cover your visit to Calshot?”

Graham gave a wan smile. “The ploy has been used before, but it's a good one. Michael and I will be installing a new ‘navigation' unit. It really
does
contain one of those new, experimental radio altimeters—among other things.…”

“Explosives?” Ellis asked softly.

Graham drew a sharp breath and shook his head, trying to shut out the image the word conjured—an explosion, and William screaming. He had not intended to let himself talk much about it, but the words came tumbling out.

“No, too suspicious later on. A very small barometric primer to blow the control cables to the tail when they reach a certain altitude. It will seem like a mechanical failure. When the pilot climbs to cross the mountains—”

“Gray, don't,” the old man whispered, looking very pale. “Don't make it any more difficult than it is.”

With a shudder, Graham drained his glass and set it beside the brigadier's, shaking his head again.

“I said I was all right, Wesley. I'll do what has to be done, don't worry.”