Attack Alarm (6 page)

He produced a box of matches and relit his pipe. “On the subject of the raid on Thorby,” he continued, “it does seem probable that he knows something. He was very evasive about it, said it was no more than a rumour and he couldn’t remember what day it was. The Intelligence officer had the impression that he was covering up. It is possible, of course, that it is a false scent. The German Air Force have apparently done that sort of thing before. They give the pilots false information, so that if they get shot down and are inclined to be talkative they won’t be giving anything away. However, I have been assured that all necessary steps will be taken to protect the station on Friday. I thought you would like to know as you were instrumental in bringing the matter to the notice of the authorities.”

I thought it was nice of him to give me such a full account of the position. But I was troubled. It seemed to me that the German pilot had been inconsistent.
I said so. “There is only one motive he could have had in telling me the plan,” I said. “Bitter at the loss of his plane, he wanted to frighten us. Now, either this plan was a pure fabrication or else there really is a plan and, knowing of it, he used his knowledge in the heat of the moment to achieve his aim.”

“Come to the point.” Ogilvie’s voice was staccato again.

“Well, sir, if it was a pure fabrication he wouldn’t have hesitated to invent details.” At that moment the whole thing seemed suddenly crystal clear to me. “My own view is that in the heat of the moment he let slip something he should not have done. He was in a very dazed condition. When the Intelligence officer questioned him about the plan, he knew it would only increase his suspicions to deny having said anything about it to me. Instead he repeated his statement, and when pressed for details made vague and grandiose claims that he knew would throw doubt on the whole thing. But about the proposed raid on Thorby he covered up in an obvious manner. Apparently he achieved his object in drawing the officer’s interest away from the plan to the raid.”

Ogilvie clicked his pipe stem up and down against his teeth. “Well, I’m afraid the Intelligence officer doesn’t take that view at all. He is experienced in these matters. I think you may take it that he is right.”

But the Intelligence officer had not seen the German pilot close up like a clam in the middle of a sentence as his eyes met Vayle’s. That seemed to be the key to the whole problem. “Could you tell me, sir, whether the Intelligence officer is making a report to Air Intelligence on the matter?” I asked.

“He didn’t say anything about it. I imagine it will be included in the daily report of the C.O.”

It was just as I had feared. “I think a report on the matter should go to A.I. without delay,” I said.

“I’m afraid what you think or do not think, Hanson, is of little importance,” Ogilvie said curtly. “The matter rests with the R.A.F., and their Intelligence officer has formed his own views.” He hesitated. “If you like, you can make out a report and I’ll send it in to Battery.”

I saw I was up against a brick wall here. Though I knew it was pretty useless, I said I would make out a report. He gave me paper and I settled down at the sergeant-major’s desk. It took me some time to write it out. It had to be brief, yet comprehensive. There was always the chance that it might get to somebody who would take the same view of its importance that I did.

By the time I got back to the pit it was nearly ten-thirty. Micky, who could never restrain his curiosity, immediately asked me what Ogilvie had wanted to see me about.

“My grandmother has just died,” I said. “He’s given me a week’s compassionate to see her decently buried.”

“A week! No kidding. You ain’t got a week? Just because your grandmuvver’s dead? This is a lousy battery. You people all hang together. If it’s one of the nobs and he just happens to feel tired, why, give ’im leave, give ’im leave. A week because your grandmuvver’s died! Cor, stuff me with little green apples! If it was one of the roughs like me and Fuller, it would be go chase yourself. It ain’t right, mate. It wouldn’t happen in the real Army. Not bloody likely. Infantry, that’s what I ought to be in.”

Micky was very class conscious. But he was unintelligent about it. He saw privilege where there was none. This and his constant grumbling over nothing
made him very annoying at times. He was always hardly done by, yet in point of fact he got away with more than any one else.

“Oh, don’t be a fool, Micky,” said Langdon. “He hasn’t got leave. He’s just telling you politely to mind your own business.”

“Oh, I get you.” Micky was all smiles again. “Sorry, mate. I didn’t rumble it.”

Langdon had started examination of equipment, which was carried out on our gun every morning between ten and eleven. As there were already quite enough on the job, I sat down on the bench by the telephone. I was still worried. Most men, I suppose, would have considered the matter closed. If the Intelligence officer was satisfied, why should I worry? But journalism makes it instinctive in one to follow up a story to the bitter end. The Intelligence officer might be right. But what worried me was the way the German had broken off as soon as he saw Vayle. It was almost as if he had been caught saying something he should not have said. That alone explained the abruptness with which he had ceased speaking. And that suggested that he knew Vayle—that Vayle was, in fact, a fifth columnist.

When we were relieved at eleven by Bombardier Hood’s detachment, I got hold of Kan as he left the pit. “You’ve been here some time, Kan,” I said. “Do you happen to know any one in the station who can tell me anything about Vayle—you know, the librarian?”

He gave me a quick glance. But he did not ask me why I wanted to know about Vayle. “There’s an R.A.F. lad we used to meet in the airmen’s Naafi—that was before they put the marquee up. I think his name was Davidson. Anyway, he was assistant librarian. We got to know him because Vayle used to take those who were applying for commissions in
trig. A dear fellow, he used to help us no end. I expect he’s still here.”

“Could you introduce him to me?” I asked.

“Why, of course, dear boy. Any time you like.”

“Now?”

“Now?” Again that quick look. For a second questions were on the tip of his tongue. But all he said was, “Right-o. I want to go down to the square to wash. I’ll take you in on the way.”

I thanked him. “I’d be very glad if you didn’t mention this to any of the others,” I said. “I’ll explain some time.”

“All right,” he said. “But if you’re free-lancing, be careful. Though God knows I shouldn’t have thought there was a story in poor little Vayle.”

“Why ‘poor little Vayle’?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s rather precious, don’t you think? Oh, I don’t suppose you’ve met him. He once told me that what he really wanted to be was an actor.” We went into the hut and he got his washing things out of his suitcase. As we set off past the dispersal point, he said: “I’ve often wondered why he became librarian at a place like this. He’s been here nearly four years, you know. And he’s a clever man. I thould think he would have done well in your own profession.”

Four years! That made it 1936. “Do you know what he did before he came here?” I asked.

“No, I don’t know, old boy. He didn’t come from another station, I’m certain of that. I should think he’d been a schoolmaster. He was very interesting when he was holding those trig, classes. Occasionally, when we had finished the routine work, he would talk about aerial tactics. I believe he’s writing a book about it. Perhaps that’s why you’re interested in him? I should think he’s travelled pretty extensively. At any rate, he’s studied internal continental
politics. He told us a lot that I didn’t know about the Nazi rise to power and the behind-the-scenes activities in French politics. He didn’t exactly prophesy the collapse of France, but after what he had told us of the internal situation I wasn’t surprised when it happened.”

This was interesting. Vayle, with his pale face and grey hair, was beginning to take shape in my mind. Everything depended on what he had been before he came to Thorby—or, rather, where he had been.

Kan could tell me nothing more about him that was helpful. The impression I got from him, however, was that Vayle was no ordinary station librarian. He appeared to have a very wide knowledge of European affairs. And why, if he was such a brilliant student of contemporary affairs, had he been content to remain for four years at the station?

The library shared a block with the Y.M.C.A. just behind Station H.Q. It was, in reality, an educational centre. Kan took me in and introduced me to Davidson, a thin wisp of a man with reddish hair and freckles. I told him I had come to see what the chances were of another trigonometry course. But when Kan had left, I led the conversation round to Vayle. Davidson, however, could tell me little more than I had already learnt from Kan. Though he had been working with Vayle for more than eighteen months, he did not know where he had been before he became librarian at Thorby.

He admired Vayle greatly. He thought him a brilliant man. “His talents are wasted here,” he said, his rather watery eyes fixed on my face. So it came back to the same thing—why had Vayle been content to stay at Thorby?

Then he began talking about the night’s action. “Mr. Vayle told me all about it this morning,” he said. “He talked to both the prisoners, you know.” He
was full of information. “The younger one was only a boy—just turned seventeen. But the other was over thirty, with masses of decorations, including the Iron Cross, first and second class. It must be interesting to be in a position like Vayle now that there’s a war on,” he added reflectively. “Being a civilian he’s not subject to the restraint of rank. He’s very highly thought of by the C.O. I think he often consults him about things. He knows everything that goes on here, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t have a say in the strategy we adopt. What he doesn’t know about aerial tactics isn’t worth knowing.”

“Did he actually talk to the prisoners?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. He’s a great linguist. I think he knows five different languages. He’d be able to talk to them in German. And I bet he got more out of them than the Intelligence officer.”

“Did he tell you what they said?”

“Oh, he said the older man was very truculent—a proper hard-boiled Nazi, I gather. The boy was in a terrible state of fright.”

“When did he see them?” I asked.

“As soon as they were brought in, I think. He said he and the C.O. were with them when the M.O. was dressing their wounds.”

This was incredible. Yet because it was incredible, I felt it must be true. The whole position was once again as clear as it had seemed when I had been talking to Ogilvie. One thing had been puzzling me. That was whether a man of the type I had judged the pilot to be was sufficiently astute to divert the Intelligence officer’s attention from the plan to the projected raid. If Vayle were a secret agent, that was explained. He had told the airman what line to take. True, the C.O. and the M.O. had been present, but the probability was that neither of them understood German.

I left Davidson in a very thoughtful mood. A horrible feeling of responsibility was growing on me. I knew only too well how a journalist’s enthusiasm for sensation can run away with his discretion. Yet I felt there was something here that I could neither forget nor ignore. But I knew I must tread warily. If I went to the authorities, I should only get into trouble without achieving anything. Vayle was in a very strong position in the station. My suspicions, based solely on conjecture, would be laughed at. And it would be little consolation, when the place was in German hands, to be able to say, “I told you so.”

There was only one thing to do. I must find out Vayle’s background prior to 1936.

The square was hot and dusty in the glare of the sun. It was past twelve and the Naafi tent was open. I felt the need of a beer. It was stiflingly hot in the marquee, although there were few people there. I took my beer to a table near an open flap. The liquid was warm and gassy. I lit a cigarette.

Suppose I ’phoned Bill Trent? He was the
Globe’s
crime reporter. Bill would know how to get hold of the information I wanted. But it would be folly to ’phone from a call box in the camp. They went through an R.A.F. switchboard. I couldn’t be sure that the operator would not be listening in. I had no idea how strict the censorship was in the station. The nearest call box outside the camp was in Thorby village. To go down there would be breaking camp. That was too dangerous.

I suddenly remembered that we were on again at one. I ought to get my lunch. I was not very enthusiastic. One of the things I disliked about Thorby more than anything else was its messing arrangements. I suppose the airmen’s mess had originally been built to seat about four or five hundred men. It now had to accommodate about two thousand. It
would be hot and smelly. The tables would be messy and there would be the inevitable queue. And there would be beans. There had been no other vegetable for weeks.

I had just finished my beer and was getting up to go when Marion Sheldon came in. She looked fresh and cool despite the heat of the day. She saw me and smiled. Before I knew what I was doing I had ordered beer and we were sitting down at my table together. Then suddenly I realised that here was the solution to my difficulties. The Waafs were billeted out and were allowed considerable freedom. Moreover, I felt she was the one person in the camp I could really trust.

“Look, will you do something for me?” I asked.

“Of course. What is it?”

“I want to get a message through to Bill Trent. It’s rather private and I don’t want to ’phone from the ’drome. I wondered if you’d put a call through to him from the village. I can’t do it myself. We’re tied to the camp.”

“I would with pleasure. But I don’t think it’s much use. Several girls have tried to get through to London this morning. But they’re only accepting priority calls. I think the lines must have been put out of action by that raid on Mitchet yesterday.”

This was a bit of a blow. I could write, of course. But that meant delay. “What about a wire?” I asked.