Somebody had fired at me from behind! And into my mind came a picture of the surprised look on Vayle’s face as I had passed him in the hangar.
Chapter Eight
I was scared. More scared than I had ever been in my life. I could stand up to bombing. I knew that now. There was something impersonal about being bombed — about war altogether. It was not a direct attack. The bomber was not trying for me personally. My life was in the hands of fate — always such a comforting thought. One took one’s chance, and there was nothing one could do about it.
But this! This was totally different. There was nothing impersonal about an attempt to shoot one in the back. It wasn’t just a random shot into the pit by some fanatical fifth columnist, I knew that. I had been the specific target. This was murder, not war. I could face machine-gun bullets — again an impersonal attack. But a deliberate attempt on my life made my scalp crawl with fear. I did not take my chance with others. There was no comfortable feeling that my life rested in the hands of a kindly fate. I had to face this alone. I was under sentence of death at Vayle’s orders. And I knew now why surprise had for a moment ousted the grief from his face when, standing beside Elaine’s body, he had looked up to see me in the hangar.
I suppose I must have looked pretty scared, for John Langdon put his hand on my shoulder. ‘It was nice of you to tow that bomb for me,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t have done it. I had expended what little nerve I had on tying the rope to the bloody thing.’
His remark had the desired effect and, momentarily detached, I watched my ego warm to that kindly praise. It amused me, too, to think that my own fear was a particular and personal one. Everyone else in the pit was scared of one thing — a further attack on the ‘drome. And I didn’t give a damn about that. I was scared because I was singled out for a murderous personal attack. And because their fear seemed trivial by comparison with mine, I experienced a sudden access of confidence. Their hostility seemed unimportant now, and I felt quite equal to any questioning.
But there was no hostility and no questioning. I had known what was going to happen, but I had stayed on the site. That and the business with the bomb put me right in their eyes. But Westley — poor little man, who had eventually obtained compassionate leave to attend his grandmother’s funeral and had left early in the morning, came in for a good deal of discussion.
The ‘planes came back in ones and twos to land as best they could on the pitted ‘drome. The glare of the day wore slowly on. Time lagged in the heat. Exposed though we were, there wasn’t a breath of wind and the drought-baked earth was hot to the touch. Anxiety and impatience combined with fear to nag at my tired mind. Would this interminable alarm never end? I wanted to find out what had happened to Marion — to see that she was all right. And John Nightingale hadn’t come in. The All Clear had gone on the Tannoy soon after the alarm. But we had been kept at our posts. They were no doubt windy, as Langdon said.
Ogilvie came round in his car with chocolate, cigarettes and beer scrounged from the ruins of the Naafi. For once quite human, he stayed and chatted, apologising for keeping us standing-to.
Gradually the atmosphere in the pit changed, apprehension giving way to annoyance. Everyone seemed to become morose. Kan scarcely raised a smile when, in reply to a question from Oggie, he described the mid as ‘Too, too utterly, shattering, what, sir.’ The only bright spot was that his inexhaustible flow of personal supplies from Fortnum and Mason’s saved us from experiencing any serious inconvenience at the loss of our lunch. For a time the sight of Micky slinking back from the shelter of the neighbouring dispersal point gave the pit a topic of conversation.
During the afternoon I got permission from Langdon to go over to the dispersal point and find out what had happened to Nightingale. But they knew no more than I did. He was missing — that was all.
Finally, at three-forty-nine we were allowed to stand-down. By that time I had forgotten my own fears in my anxiety to find out what had happened to Marion. And then, of course, Langdon had to pick on me to do the first air sentry. It was my turn, it was true. But I could have burst into tears with impatience.
I wasn’t alone for long in the pit, for as soon as they had boiled some water on the primus, Langdon and Blah came out to clean the barrel and do a cursory examination of equipment. Half an hour of my hour’s guard passed very quickly. But after that it began to drag. I had been almost continuously on the pit for six hours. Reaction from the excitement of the action had left me tired and dispirited. Fortunately this had one advantage in that it dulled my sense of fear. I was too weary to think, and so imagination, the source of all fear, was numbed. The glaring heat of the sun seemed undiminished. A mug of tea and some cigarettes were brought out to me.
I didn’t seem hungry, but the tea was very welcome. And when I had finished it, I stood there in the sultry heat and stared at the wreck of Thorby, not consciously recording what my eyes saw. The fires were under control now and only an occasional wisp of smoke drifted up from the ruins. From where I stood there was little to show the fearful nature of the attack. The bulk of the hangars still stood intact, screening the desolation I had seen from the square. People came and went between the camp and the dispersal points, the cars weaving their way in and out among the craters that dotted the edge of the field. Lorry loads of Royal Engineers were brought out to fill up craters on the runways and to deal with D.A. bombs.
A car drew up just beyond the pit. It was an R.A.F. car and someone got out. I took no notice. I was watching a Hurricane, whose tail appeared to be badly damaged and whose undercarriage had failed to work, coming slowly in to a pancake landing.
‘Excuse me, could you tell me what hospital Gunner Hanson has been taken to?’
It was a girl’s voice. I turned, still watching the ‘plane out of the tail of my eye. ‘What did you say?’
‘Barry!’
I forgot about the plane. It was her voice. But my eyes were full of colours through staring into the sun. I did not recognise her at first. Her face was in shadow. But I knew the cut of her hair. ‘You’re all right, then.’ My voice sounded cold as I tried to hide my emotion. It was such a dull remark.
But she didn’t seem to notice it. ‘It really is you, isn’t it?’ There was a momentary break in her voice.
‘As far as I know,’ I said, and we laughed and the spell of awkwardness was gone.
‘I didn’t recognise you in your tin hat,’ she said. ‘You see I–I wasn’t expecting to find you here at all. I was told by a Waaf from the sick bay that a soldier with the name Hanson on his identity disc had been found in the square, badly wounded. I thought it must be you. But she didn’t know what hospital he had been taken to.’
‘Well, thank God, there is apparently another Hanson in the camp,’ I said. ‘Where were you?’
‘In a shelter at our quarters outside the ‘drome. It might have been worse, I suppose. A bomb fell on the wing of the house and it collapsed on the end of our shelter, but no-one was injured. Things are pretty bad down in the camp. All the barrack blocks are gutted, the Naafi, Station Headquarters and three shelters were hit. Have you seen the hut where the Guards and R.E.s were billeted?’ I shook my head. ‘Absolute shambles. They’re blown all over the place. Looks like one of those film shots of an American hurricane. And there’s no gas, water or electricity.’ She hesitated. ‘I suppose you regard this as