Attack Alarm (16 page)

Sharply came Langdon’s order: “Fire!”

The gun cracked. And at the same moment the whole camp seemed to lift in a pall of smoke and high-thrown masonry and earth. The remains of the half-demolished barrack block appeared to rise into the air, blasted into a thousand pieces. At the same time there was a roar like thunder. And against these black spouts of smoke and buildings that had risen like a solid wall across the camp the ’planes showed silver as they roared towards us through the hot sunlight. They seemed huge. Dorniers they were—Dornier 215’s. I recognised the hammer head. They seemed to fill the whole sky. And amongst them a great puff of black smoke. Two of them rocked violently as our shrapnel smashed into them. But still they came on.

The gun cracked again and then again. The other three-inch was firing too. But it had no effect. They were already too near for the fuse we were using. They had split up now. Breaking into two formations in line astern, they swept up each side of the landing
field. Suddenly I was frightened. It was the first time I had felt frightened. For I knew in that instant, suddenly, what had been clear to my subconscious for some time: they were going for the ground defences. Not only the ground defences, but the personnel of the aerodrome as a whole. The bulk of the hangars stood clear and solid and undamaged against the pall of smoke and flame that was rolling over what had been the barrack blocks, the Naafi and the canteen. Yet I still stood there, fascinated, as the ’planes swept down on us.

A bomb fell close to Gun Ops. and another by an Hispano pit. A brick and concrete pill-box only fifty yards from us was hit. One second it was standing there, just as it had been built a fortnight back, and the next it had disintegrated into a pile of rubble spewed callously into the air. And then the first ’plane was upon us. At point-blank range Langdon gave the order to fire, in the desperate hope that we should score a direct hit. I suppose we missed. At any rate it swept unfalteringly over us, its great wing span casting a shadow over the pit that seemed to me like the shadow of death. I could see the pilot, sitting woodenly in his cockpit. I saw his teeth bared and thought how it must take nerve to do what he was doing.

And as it swept past a little line of jumping sand ran along the top of the parapet. The rear gunner was firing at us. I ducked. But just before I ducked I saw the Bofors on our side of the ’drome open fire on the ’plane. Its little flaming oranges streamed towards it. And then one hit and another, bursting along the fuselage. The great ’plane staggered and then crumpled up and plunged towards the earth. I didn’t see it crash. By this time the next ’plane was over us and the rear gunner was pumping a stream of bullets into the pit. Something struck the back of my
tin hat, jerking my head forward so that for a second I felt my neck must have been broken. I heard it whine into the air. Then I was crouching down against the parapet for protection. Bullets sprayed along the cinder floor and punctured the sandbags in perfect symmetrical lines. Above the din I could hear the clang and whine as they hit the gun and ricochetted off.

And all the time Langdon stood erect and the layers remained on their seats and Micky continued to fire. It was fuse one now, and the noise of the charge seemed to be followed almost immediately by the burst of the shell. Hood was fusing the shells, crouched close to the ground, and the ammunition numbers ran up to the gun with them, bent almost double.

Incredible it seems, looking back, but only one man was hit—it was a lad called Strang, and he only had his hand torn by a ricochet. Yet as each ’plane swept over us, little darts of flame that were tracer bullets streaked into the pit. None, thank God, struck any of the open ammunition lockers.

Once Langdon shouted. A second later a piece of metal fell into the pit. One of our shells had burst very close to a ’plane. I sensed the stagger of the machine as its shadow crossed the pit.

From my crouched position I caught a glimpse of a Hurricane diving practically vertically on to the hangars. I thought it was going to crash. But it flattened out and came down on to the tail of the sixth Dornier. The sound of its eight guns could be heard for a second above the din. The stabs of fire from their muzzles were visible even in the glare of the sun. It looked like one of those little war toys made in Japan that have a flint spark. I glimpsed the lettering on the fuselage—TZ05. Nightingale’s ’plane! And my heart warmed to that daring piece of flying.

Automatically I had counted the ’planes as they
came over. It was the fifth that we had damaged. And close on its tail as it went over us came the sound of the next one. And then something hit the parapet opposite me, covering me with loose sand and spilling the shells from a locker on to the floor of the pit. And as the parapet collapsed the ’plane passed directly over us, so low that if I had jumped up I felt certain I could have touched its wings.

And as the noise of it died away to the north, firing ceased and everything was strangely quiet. I looked up at the cloudless blue of the sky. The dive attack was over, and all that remained of it was a ragged formation of ’planes heading south-eastwards, nose-down, for home. And then in the unnatural quiet we heard a new sound—the crackle of flames.

I got to my feet and gazed round. Thorby looked a shambles. The whole camp to the south of the landing field was enveloped in smoke. Through it I could see the hangars, still largely intact. But the other buildings were broken and battered shells from which great tongues of flame leapt up clear against the background of black smoke. And between the camp and our pit stretched a profusion of bomb craters, like old mole hills.

There was no doubt about it: they had gone for personnel, not for the field itself or even the aircraft, of which, as it happened, there were quite a number in the hangars waiting to be serviced.

Heaven knows how many ’planes that German squadron had lost. We heard later that it was one of their crack squadrons. It had to be. It was a crazy, beautiful piece of flying. They must have known that Thorby was well defended before they undertook the flight. It would need nerve to take on such a job in cold blood. There was one down at the north end of the flying field, a crumpled wreck. And another had plunged into the scrub near the remains of the one
we had brought down the other night; it was burning furiously. Others, too, must have been hit. And then the rest had to get home in the face of our fighters without height.

All the time I stood taking in the chaos that was Thorby, Langdon was yelling at me. But I was too dazed to take it in. “Go on! Get out of the pit! All of you. Can’t you understand you’re standing by a bomb? Get out!”

Suddenly I grasped it. I glanced at him wonderingly. Where was the bomb? I couldn’t see one. I looked round the pit. Hood and Fuller were carrying Helson out. Chetwood was helping Strang. Others were standing about, dazed, or following Hood sheep-like out of the pit. Micky was cowering in a corner, sobbing, white-faced and panic-stricken. He had remained at his post throughout the action, calm and unperturbed by the hail of metal that had sung about him. Yet now that it was over, the reaction made a coward of him. Kan’s face was chalk-white and he staggered slightly as he left the pit. Blah just stood there, dazed and pale.

“Get out or you’ll be blown up.” I realised that Langdon was yelling at me. He was pointing at the parapet in front of me. Only then did my brain function. The parapet had collapsed because a bomb had hit it—a delayed-action bomb. I turned again to find Langdon struggling with Micky. Between us we got him out of the pit, stumbling over the litter of shell-cases. He was shaking like a leaf. Kan and Blah came with us, alive at last to the danger.

We took him into the hut. From there I looked back. Protruding from the broken parapet were the fins of a bomb. The nose was buried in the sand. Dropped from only thirty feet or so, it had not had the impetus to bury itself deeply. A cold chill ran down my spine as I realised what would have happened if it had been
a percussion type instead of delayed action. God! how lucky we had been!

“We’ve got to get it away from there,” Langdon said. “Must get the gun into action as soon as possible.”

“There’s rope in the store hangar,” I said. “Can I borrow your bike?”

“Yes, of course.”

I took it and pedalled off down the roadway, weaving my way in and out between the craters. Anything for action. I was feeling very shaken. The smell of cordite was strong, especially round the craters, and as I neared the hangars the acrid smell of smoke filled my lungs. I passed what was left of the officers’ mess and made for the square. As I did so I heard a single Tannoy loudspeaker ordering all men not servicing aircraft to report to the square for firefighting.

The chaos of that square was quite indescribable. It was bounded on three sides by blazing buildings. They had dropped incendiaries as well as H.E. The fire-fighting equipment was quite inadequate for the task. The smoke was blinding. It filled my eyes to choking point and made them run. Men and girls were running everywhere. Some were screaming. The place reeked with pain and nervous exhaustion. I passed a dug-out shelter which had been hit. They were getting the dead and wounded out. I felt slightly sick and was convinced I could smell the blood.

There was broken glass everywhere and my back tyre was soon flat. Ambulance and A.R.P. fire-pumps were beginning to come in from districts around. I reached the Educational without being knocked down. There was nothing left of it. The station hospital had gone, too. It was just a pile of rubble with one wall standing and the front door, upright in solitary splendour. A girl in a torn Waaf uniform staggered through
the ruins and came out by the front door. She closed it carefully behind her. Her face and hair were coated with a thick dust of powdered masonry and her hands were bleeding.

I thought suddenly and sickeningly of Marion. Where had she been during the raid? Had she gone to a shelter? Of course she must have done. Was she in that one that had been hit? Questions passed through my mind unanswered. I knew then that she meant something to me. What, my confused mind could not realise. All I knew then was that the memory of her face, those clear eyes, that tilted nose, that straight fair hair, hurt. It was like green grass and the river, like a mountain at sunset, against that chaos of broken brick. It was the glimpse of beauty in the midst of ugliness that hurt—the need for beauty that was out of reach. It was symbol of the best that was in me, chained to the horrors of man-made catastrophe that was the moment’s reality.

I turned up the road leading to the rearmost hangar. Almost immediately I had to get off my bicycle. The road was full of rubble. This was where the bomber we had brought down had crashed. A whole hangar had collapsed like a pack of cards. The tail of the machine with the swastika on it was sticking up out of the ruins of the collapsed roof. It was a miracle it hadn’t caught on fire, for the roof had been built of wood.

The hangar I wanted adjoined it on the other side. The road in front of me was blocked by the remains of the Naafi Institute. I left my bike and clambered through the ruins. The north wall was still standing and by keeping close to this the going was quite easy. At the farther end, where it adjoined the next hangar, part of the roof was still intact.

Smothered by the dust and smoke and intent on reaching the store hangar, where I knew I should find
the rope I wanted, I did not see Vayle until I was right on top of him.

I looked up, startled. He was hardly recognisable. His clothes were torn and covered with dust and his usually well-groomed hair was dishevelled. There was something about his face that frightened me. Pain and bitterness seemed to mingle in the set of his mouth. And his eyes had lost their cold alertness and were fever bright. He looked at me without recognition.

I was just hastening on when I glanced down and saw the thing at his feet. It was the crumpled body of a girl. The face was drained of all colour, and the blood from the gaping wound in her head was congealing with the dust on her face and clothes. I hesitated. And then I realised that it was Elaine Stuart, and I hurried on. The memory of Vayle’s wild dry eyes lingered with me as I passed into the store hangar.

She was dead, of course. No doubt of that. And she had meant a great deal to him. That wild dryeyed look! I remembered the photograph. Why had he kept that all these years? And then a thought occurred to me. Suppose she had been his wife?

And in a flash I saw it all. The raiders had gone for personnel, not for the hangars. Vayle had known this. Elaine and he had gone to the hangars and not to the shelters. She, with a woman’s premonition, had been afraid of this and had cried out in her sleep against it. But in the morning he had soothed her fears and now, because we had downed a bomber with a lucky shot, she lay dead at his feet.

I picked up a big coil of light rope lying beside a pile of flares. I could not help feeling sorry for the man. He had thought the hangars the safest place in the ’drome. I could imagine how he felt.

I had to go back the same way. The end of the
other road I knew was blocked. And because of the piled-up ruin of the roof I had to pass quite close to Vayle. He looked at me. And this time into his dazed eyes came recognition. With it came a look of surprise that I did not quite understand. He seemed somehow shocked at the sight of me. I thought he was going to speak to me and I hurried by him. What was there I could say? The stricken look had never left his face though the expression had changed when he recognised me. For the moment at least the girl meant more to him than all his plans.

I retrieved my bike and rode back to the square, the rope slung over my shoulder. It was heavy and I found it difficult to negotiate the scattered debris. Even in the short time I had been getting the rope, things had changed in the square. There were men everywhere, running to shouts of command. Three proper fire-engines had arrived, and more ambulances and A.F.S. fire-pumps. There were civilian cars too—doctors’ cars, mostly. And the dead and wounded were being laid out on the grass at the edge of the square. Hoses were being run out and great jets of water were being poured into the blazing blocks.