Immediately the ‘plane had crashed, the searchlight swung upwards. For a moment I could see no sign of the ‘plane, though the light of the searchlights showed up the edge of the ‘drome quite clearly. Then suddenly I saw a pin-point of light. It grew. And then flung outwards in a flash of orange. A great umbrella of flame leaped upwards to a height of several hundred feet. And when it was gone, the light from the blazing wreckage showed a perfect ring of smoke drifting slowly skyward.
‘God! It’s horrible!’ Kan was standing up and his thin aesthetic face was working as though he himself were in the blazing wreck.
‘What d’you mean — horrible?’ demanded Micky.
They’re human beings just the same as us,’ replied Kan, his hands pressed tight together as though in prayer and his eyes fixed on the blaze, fascinated.
‘Bloody murderers — that’s what they are, mate, I tell you. You don’t want to waste no sympathy on them bastards.’
‘Look!’ cried Fuller, pointing up into the beams of the searchlights. ‘It’s a parachute. Two of ‘em.’
Our gaze swung from the wreckage up into the point in the searchlights where two white umbrellas of silk swung lazily earthwards. It was possible to see the men dangling from the parachutes as though held there by magic.
‘Who got it — us or the other site”?’ It was Bombardier
He was still only half dressed. The rest of his detachment, in various stages of undress, were streaming out behind him.
‘We did,’ Micky replied promptly. ‘An’ a bloody good shot it was, I tell you.’
‘It was impossible to say,’ Langdon said. ‘Philip’s gun was in action. I saw two bursts. One was away to the right and the other seemed close beside his port wing-tip. It was quite impossible to say which was ours. Confoundedly lucky shot anyway.’
At that moment the troop van drew up at the gun pit and Tiny Trevors got out, a big grin on his face. ‘Congratulations, Johnnie,’ he said. ‘Damn good shooting.’
‘There, I told you so,’ said Micky.
‘It was our shot, was it?’ asked Langdon.
‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about it. Though, of course, Site One are quite convinced they brought it down. But Philip’s first shot was definitely to the right. He was firing fuse twelve, and he never had time to alter it. Your first shot was definitely short. You didn’t change your fuse, did you?’
‘No. We fired three at fuse nine.’
‘Then it must have been yours. The Jerry ran right into it.’ He looked round the pit. ‘Your second detachment are due to take over, aren’t they? All right then, the others can pile into the van and we’ll go and have a look at the good work.’
We needed no second invitation. We were as excited as a bunch of school kids. We scrambled over the parapet of sandbags and into the back of the van, all talking at once. When we got to the north end of the ‘drome, the wreck was still burning. Several bushes had caught adding to the blaze. Ground defence guards had already arrived, but it was impossible to get nearer than fifty yards owing to the intense heat. It hit one in the face as though one were standing in front of the open door of a blast furnace. Everyone stood about helplessly, their faces ruddy in the glow and their eyes fascinated by the flames. The ‘plane was just a twisted mass of steel framework that stood out black against the flames, except here and there where the steel was white with heat and dissolving into molten metal.
It seemed incredible that a few minutes ago this mass of writhing steel had had power and a will of its own, and had been proudly flying through the night sky. I couldn’t believe that the transformation from a beautiful deadly weapon of modern warfare to this ugly mess was entirely due to the six of us — six ordinary men manning a gun.
There was a sudden shout and everyone’s gaze lifted skywards. Almost directly above us a parachute showed a dull orange in the glare. Slowly it descended, drifting silently through the still air. We watched it in silence. The only sound was the roar and crackling of the flames. Soon it was low enough for us to see the face of the man who dangled from it, swinging gently to and fro on the thin cords. His face was without expression. It was like a mask. It seemed a symbol of mass-production, and I immediately thought of the hordes that were pouring over Europe. Had all these men who had goose-stepped down the Champs-Elysees the same expressionless features? Was this the face of the new Germany — Hitler’s Germany?
It was surprising how long it took for him to reach the ground. Yet when he hit the tarmac on the edge of the ‘drome he seemed to be falling horribly fast. He managed to land with his feet first, and attempted to break his fall by rolling over. But at a distance of nearly a hundred yards the thud of his body striking the tarmac was sickeningly loud.
We all ran towards the spot where he had fallen. I was one of the first to reach him as he staggered to his feet, his face white and set with pain. He did not attempt to reach for the revolver in his belt or to raise his hands in surrender. He did nothing. There was nothing he could do.
One arm hung limp from the shoulder and he swayed steadily as though at any moment he must fall. But he kept on his feet and his face was no longer expressionless. Hate and mortification struggled for mastery of his features.
A guardsman seized the revolver from his belt. The German forced himself to attention. ‘Wo ist ein Offizier?’ He snapped. There was bitterness and contempt in his face, which bore the stamp of the Prussian Junker class. ‘Ich verlange den meinem Rang gebuhrenden Respekt.’
None of the others understood what he said. I looked quickly round. There was no officer in sight. A crowd of men, mainly soldiers, were pressed round in a circle. ‘Ich fcedavere, es ist noch kein Offizier gekommen,’ I said. I sad spent some months in our Berlin office and knew the language quite well. ‘So it’s an officer he’s wanting, is it?’ said a Scots Guard with a sour, lined face. ‘Ye’ve got a nerve, laddie. Ye had no mercy on the women and children over the other side. Ye had no mercy on us on the beaches of Dunkirk. Yet as soon as you’re down, ye start squawking for an officer.’
The sights those men had seen of the bombing and machine-gunning of terror-stricken refugees in Belgium and France had left their mark.
The German did not flinch in the face of the hostile circle of men. He stood stiffly erect, his face set. He was a tall, well-built man of about thirty. He had well-groomed fair hair, and his most noticeable feature was a very square jaw which gave him a sullen look. He had a row of ribbons on his flying suit.
He looked round the crowd of faces. ‘You’ve shot me down,’ he said, speaking in German. ‘But it won’t be long now. Soon you will collapse like the cowardly French.’
‘You’ll never invade this country successfully,’ I replied, also in German.
He looked at me. I think he was too dazed with shock to realise what he was saying. ‘You English! You are so blind. It is all planned. The day is appointed. And on that day your fighter aeroplanes will be taken from you and you will be left defenceless to face the courageous might of the Luftwaffe.’
I suppose I must have looked at him rather foolishly. But it was so reminiscent of our conversation in the Naafi that evening. Through a gap in the encircling crowd I saw a big R.A.F. car slither to a standstill. The C.O. Thorby and several other men got out, including the ground defence officer. Quickly I said, ‘I don’t believe you. It’s not possible.’