A Waaf came up to Winton. ‘Mr Ross reports lorry captured intact, sir,’ she said. ‘He’s got seven prisoners.’
‘Good. Tell him to fetch the lorry and the prisoners down here at once.’
So much for Vayle’s attempt to help German troops to land at Thorby. I remembered how he had sent those lorries off. He had been so calm and so assured. Well, he had every right to be. It had been a clever plan. His luck had been out, that was all. And what would he do now? It seemed such a strange anti-climax for him to be arrested and shot as a spy. Yet that was what would probably happen. And Winton would, of course, have to be present at the court-martial.
Telephone buzzers sounded. The Waafs at their desks began writing furiously. Others took the slips of paper to the table. The whole room suddenly sprang to life. Everything was confusion; but it was the ordered confusion of a job being carried out.
Little wooden markers with arrows began to appear on that section of the table that represented the Channel. All the arrows pointed one way — towards the southeast coast. And the wooden markers had swastikas on them. They also had numbers. There were several thirties and one or two forties and fifties plotted within the space of a few seconds. Each marker meant a formation of enemy planes. I counted three hundred and forty plotted already.
‘Get both squadrons up,’ Winton ordered. And a moment later came the faint sound of the Tannoy: ‘Both squadrons scramble! Tiger Squadron scramble! Swallowtail Squadron scramble! Scramble! Off!’
I heard a Waaf on a telephone just near me saying: ‘Several large formations of hostile aircraft approaching from the southeast. They are believed to be troop-carriers with fighter escorts. Heights range from fifteen to twenty thousand feet. Guns are to hold their fire.’
The movement of the enemy air attack began to take shape as the markers were moved steadily forward with every observation report that came in. Other markers also appeared. These had the red, white and blue roundels of the R.A.F., and they were mainly inland from the coast.
The young artillery officer, Ross, came in. He went straight up to Winton. They conversed in low tones. Suddenly the C.O. said: ‘Balloons? With lights? Excellent. A green at the start of the runway and red at the end, eh?’
‘No, the other way about, sir. And it’s a red light and a white light.’
‘Sure the fellow isn’t trying to put one across you?’
‘I don’t think so, sir. He’s pretty badly hurt and very frightened.’
‘What height are they to be flown at?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I didn’t ask him.’
Winton turned to me. ‘Do you know what height these balloons are to be flown at, Hanson?’
‘Vayle said fifty feet, sir.’
‘Good. That means about thirty feet above the smoke. Get the balloons blown up and the lights attached. The red light will be above the hangars just east of Station H.Q., and the white one above the main gates. Fly the balloons at eighty feet. Can you get them in position in five minutes?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very good. I’m giving orders for the smoke screen to be laid right away. It will be between thirty and fifty feet. See that the balloons are up by the time the smoke screen is finished.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He dashed out of the room.
Winton went over to the switchboard. ‘Give me Number Two dispersal,’ he told the Waaf telephonist. ‘Hallo! Marston? Are those two Hurricanes ready with smoke? They’re to take off at once and lay a smoke screen along the eastern edge of the ‘drome from the Thorby road to the north edge of the landing field. The smoke must not be loosed at less than thirty feet or at more than fifty feet, and they must cut off at the limits given. They will continue until the smoke is exhausted or they receive instructions to cease. Right. Tell ‘em to scramble.’
Winton had a number of ground-staff officers round him now. He was issuing orders in a quiet, precise voice. I only caught a few words here and there. From above ground came the faint murmur of engines revving up. On the table the swastika markers had moved forward over the coast. The attack was taking shape. Formations of about fifty bombers and a hundred fighters were closing in on each of the fighter stations. Two of these formations were heading in our direction.
An officer came to the telephone just beside me. ‘Gun Ops? Warn the guns that the two Hurricanes just taking off will be laying a smoke screen about fifty feet above the ‘drome. They are only to fire on enemy ‘planes landing on the field. They will not open fire at aircraft that crash. Any survivors will be mopped up by ground defences.’
Before he had finished speaking the Tannoy announced: ‘Attention, please! A smoke screen is being laid over the ‘drome by two of our machines. Hostile troop-carriers may be expected to attempt a landing. Some of these will probably crash. Ground defences will ensure that no hostile troops are allowed to take offensive action after their ‘planes have crashed. Care should be taken to avoid getting in the field of fire of the guns which have instructions to open fire on any hostile ‘planes that succeed in landing on the ‘drome. Off.’
‘Hanson!’ It was Winton calling me. ‘I think you had better report back to your gun site now.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Any points that have not been covered?’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘Right. Thank you for your help — and good luck.’
‘And to you, sir.’ I saluted and hurried out of Operations. Bill Trent was outside. ‘Look after yourself, Barry,’ he said. ‘I’ll want a story out of you when the show is over.’
‘You’ll be lucky if you’re allowed to print it,’ I said. And jumping on the first bike I saw, I rode up the ramp and out on to the tarmac. I could just make out our gun pit almost on the other side of the ‘drome. It stood out against the dull glow of the eastern horizon. The moon had set and the flying field looked pale and flat and cold. Tin hats — blue and khaki — showed above the ramparts of the ground-defence trenches. Soldiers stood waiting, their rifles ready, at the entrance to pill-boxes. There was an unpleasant atmosphere of expectancy.
As I crossed the tarmac in front of the hangars one of the Hurricanes made its first run along the eastern edge of the field. It was just a vague, shadowy thing in the half light, and it flew so low that I felt it must pile itself up on the first dispersal point. And it left behind it a thin line pencilled across the dull grey of the sky. The line spread and grew, a dark, menacing cloud. It ceased at the northern edge of the ‘drome. I could just make out the shape of the ‘plane as it banked away for the turn.
By the hangar nearest to Station H.Q. men were busy about a balloon that looked like a miniature barrage balloon. Just below it was fixed a red light. As I passed the hangar the balloon rose gently and steadily into the air.
Soon I was cycling down the roadway on the eastern edge of the field. It was getting very dark now. The smoke was overhead, a great billowy cloud that moved slowly south-west over the station. It was so low that I felt I must be able to touch it by putting my hand up. Here and there a stray wisp reached down to the ground, curling gently, and as I rode through them my nostrils filled with the thick, acrid smell of the stuff. As I passed the dispersal point just to the south of our pit the second Hurricane zoomed overhead. It was so close that instinctively I ducked. Yet I could not see it. The darkness increased as its smoke trail merged with the rest, and I almost rode past the gun site.
As I entered the pit my eyes searched the faces that I could barely see: Langdon, Chetwood, Hood, Fuller. But Micky wasn’t there. Nor was Kan. ‘What’s happened to Micky?’ I asked Langdon. Is he …‘I hesitated.