Читать книгу Worrals on the War-path - W E Johns - Страница 7

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Deep night lay across the fair land of France, night as black as the soul of its Nazi conqueror. Only here and there a star gleamed mistily, wanly, as though afraid of what it might reveal. Everywhere, everything was silent, as if all living creatures were afraid to breathe lest the sound be heard by the ever-watchful German masters. Only one thing moved—the Spectre of Fear, and he stalked triumphant through cottage and château, from the fertile fields of Flanders to the rocky, sun-washed shores of the Mediterranean Sea.

But wait! Something else was stirring. Two shadows had, it seemed, come to life, on a narrow track that fringed a gorge so deep, with walls so sheer, that had it not been for the towering crags that cut into the sky beyond the chasm, it might have been the end of the world. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked; not the friendly, warning bark of a dog disturbed at a comfortable fireside, but the savage threat of a creature of the wild. The figures stopped, and once more melted into the colourless background.

A voice spoke softly, a girl’s voice, a strange sound, you might think, to be heard at such a place at such a time.

“Where there are dogs, there are usually men not far away. What do you make of it, Worrals?” it asked, a trifle anxiously.

Flight Officer Joan Worralson, better known in the W.A.A.F. as “Worrals,” glanced at her luminous wrist watch.

“Eleven-twenty,” she murmured thoughtfully. “I should say we’re getting near Carnac. This path gets dizzier and dizzier. The moon should be up in ten minutes. I think we had better wait for it. We are all right for time. Let’s have another look at the map—here, among the rocks.”

There was a faint rustle of paper as the map was unfolded and spread open on the ground. Lying flat the girls examined it in the light of a small electric torch, keeping the beam within a narrow circle with their hands.

“In mountain country like this, one track is much like another, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to get off your course,” remarked Worrals quietly. “But if I haven’t made a mistake, and I don’t think I have, we ought to be somewhere here.” She marked a spot with the point of a pencil. “Remember, it’s four years since I was here, and then I only saw the place in daylight,” she went on. “Our rendezvous is the fork of the tracks that come up from La Malene and Vignes. Fortunately, they meet just this side of Carnac, which can’t be more than a mile away. We’ll wait for the moon.” Worrals folded the map, slipped it into the bundle which she carried, and glanced at the sky. “I hope the weather holds. We’ve been lucky so far, but I don’t like the look of those clouds.”

“I could nibble a biscuit,” suggested Betty Lovell, her companion, more often known in the Service as “Frecks,” on account of the freckles with which her face had been plentifully endowed.

“I’ve never seen the time when you couldn’t,” returned Worrals evenly. “Help yourself, but go slow, we haven’t many left. They’re in your bag.”

Silence fell as the girls settled down to wait.

Lying among the rocks near the edge of the gorge, Worrals allowed her mind to drift back over the events of the three weeks during which a vague idea had crystallised into grim reality. Had Squadron Leader Marcus Yorke, of the Air Intelligence Service, not come to the aerodrome, she reflected, it was unlikely that she would have mentioned it. Even then she did not suppose that it would be taken seriously by the Higher Command. She had found the Intelligence Officer at Station Headquarters with the C.O., Wing Commander McNavish, who had recently been promoted.

“Hullo, Worrals,” greeted the Squadron Leader. “I was hoping to see you while I was here. Having a quiet time?”

“Too quiet,” answered Worrals. “I won’t interrupt you now, but may I have word with you before you leave?”

“Our rendezvous is the fork of the tracks from Malene and Vignes”

Wing Commander McNavish flicked the short, bristling moustache that gave him the appearance of an angry fox terrier. His steely-blue eyes gleamed frostily.

“What’s this?” he barked. “Something going on behind my back?”

“Oh no, sir,” answered Worrals, looking shocked at the idea.

“Then come in and say what ye have to say,” ordered the C.O.

“Thank you, sir,” returned Worrals sweetly. “Flight Officer Lovell is with me.”

“All right, come on, the pair of ye,” grunted the C.O. “What is it, a plot?”

“Not exactly, sir,” replied Worrals. “So far it’s only an idea.”

“Ah,” breathed the C.O. “Another crazy scheme, eh?”

“Suppose we leave Squadron Leader Yorke to judge, sir?” suggested Worrals. “He’ll soon decide if it’s crazy or not.”

“Go ahead, Worrals,” invited the Squadron Leader.

“Listening to the news on the wireless last night, I was particularly interested in the story of the convoy that has just got through to Malta,” began Worrals. “I gather that some of the ships carried fighter aircraft for the Malta garrison—in fact, the announcer said as much.”

Squadron Leader Yorke looked puzzled. “Yes, that’s no secret,” he confirmed.

“It struck me,” continued Worrals, “that to send aircraft to Malta by sea must be a long and hazardous undertaking.”

“How else would you get them there?” inquired Squadron Leader Yorke. “No single-seater fighter has a petrol capacity sufficient for it to fly direct, non-stop, to Malta—more’s the pity.”

“But with one intermediate landing stage, to refuel, a fighter could not only get through, but make the trip in a few hours,” said Worrals pointedly.

Squadron Leader Yorke smiled sadly. “True, but where, may I ask, would you land? If we leave out Spain, which is right off the course, every inch of territory between here and Malta is in the hands of the enemy.”

“I’m perfectly aware of that,” declared Worrals. “That’s what started me thinking. I don’t see why a machine shouldn’t land in France——”

“France!” The C.O. blinked. “France! The gal’s crazy,” he told the Squadron Leader.

“Just a minute, sir—let me finish,” requested Worrals firmly. “You will agree, I think, that I am a practical pilot—even if you don’t believe in women pilots——”

“All richt—all richt—never mind aboot that,” barked the C.O. “Come to the point.”

“Speaking as a pilot of some experience I feel sure I could devise a scheme whereby, in an emergency, one or more squadrons of fighters could be rushed through to Malta in reasonable safety. If that were possible, it might, at a pinch, make a lot of difference to the war in the Mediterranean, and possibly in the Near East.”

“I should jolly well think it would,” put in the Squadron Leader warmly. “Go on Worrals. You excite my curiosity. Suppose you were in charge of such an operation, how would you work the miracle?”

“I don’t like the word miracle,” protested Worrals. “I’m dealing in hard-boiled facts, not impossibilities. My scheme would involve a straightforward, if somewhat irregular operation. I happen to know France very well.” She spoke directly to Squadron Leader Yorke. “Have you ever been in that part of unoccupied France known as the Cévennes?”

“I’ve heard of the place, but I can’t say that I know the district.”

“Few English people do, and, I imagine, few Germans,” went on Worrals. “I once spent a month there, and it comes to this. Right in the heart of France there is an open area as lonely as you would find anywhere. There are, to my certain knowledge, plateaux that could be used as landing grounds for aircraft. I won’t pretend that they are everything that could be desired, but I know at least one that would serve in an emergency. I don’t suppose there is a German within fifty miles of the place—although no doubt there soon would be if we started operating from there. But by that time we should have achieved our object. The planes would have gone through, and whatever the Nazis did afterwards it would be beyond their power to stop them.”

“A plateau, eh ... in the middle of France,” murmured Squadron Leader Yorke thoughtfully. “No trees?”

“None. The only obstacles would be rocks, and they could be moved.”

“But surely, if the country is as open as that, machines landing and taking off would be seen?”

“Not necessarily. The district is too big for that.”

“But there must be some people there?”

“Yes, shepherds and peasants; but if I know anything about them they would be on our side. They’re probably the toughest people in France—and the most intensely patriotic. But I was not thinking of operating so much by day as by night, and only then on rare occasions. If the scheme succeeded once, it might be worth while.”

“Just how would you go about this?” asked the Squadron Leader.

“Well, this is what I would do,” went on Worrals, warming up to her subject. “First, it would be necessary for someone to go over and prepare the ground—or at any rate, clear a runway, by moving any loose rocks. That done, the landing area would be marked out with a few small lights—electric torches would do. Then a transport plane would fly down with the equipment—fuel and oil, a pump, and a length of hose. The people on the spot would have to handle things so that the machine could get away again before dawn. The equipment would be hidden amongst the rocks, or better still, in one of the caves with which the place is honeycombed. The transport machine might have to make several journeys to bring a big supply of petrol. Naturally, the more petrol that could be brought, the greater the number of fighters that could go through. Having got everything hidden the operatives take cover. They would have a portable radio. When fighter aircraft were required urgently at Malta the people at home would simply have to send a signal to say that the machines were on their way, giving the approximate time of arrival of the first one. The operatives switch on the lights to show them where to land. After that, machines would arrive at intervals of, say, fifteen minutes, right through the hours of darkness. As each machine landed it would be refuelled, after which it would push right on to Malta. Given enough petrol it might be possible to get two complete squadrons through in one night. Of course, you couldn’t go on doing this sort of thing for long without the enemy getting to know about it, but what would it matter? The fighters would have gone through, after which the operatives would destroy the equipment and get home by such means as they could devise.”

The two senior officers were silent for a full minute. They simply sat and stared at Worrals. Squadron Leader Yorke was the first to speak.

“For sheer cheek you take the biscuit,” he remarked, slowly. “All the same, Worrals, I think you’ve got something here. As far as I can see there is only one serious snag.”

“What is it?”

“You spoke of operatives. From where are we to get people who have the three essential qualifications for the job—an intimate knowledge of the district, an ability to speak French, and a broad grasp of air pilotage?”

Worrals smiled faintly. “You’d only need one such person, with an efficient assistant.”

Squadron Leader Yorke started. “You’re not suggesting that you do it?”

“Why not? I speak French, I know the district, and I can fly. Added to that, as you know, I’ve had a certain amount of experience in operating in enemy territory.”

“I’ll no hear of it,” swore Wing Commander McNavish, bringing his hand down on the desk with a crash that made the inkwell jump. “The thing’s preposterous. Ye’ll lose your life.”

“You said that last time, sir,” reminded Worrals.

“Aye, and sooner or later I’ll be right.”

Squadron Leader Yorke stepped into the argument. “I think I’ll be getting back to headquarters,” he said abruptly.

“You think the scheme is not unreasonable?” coaxed Worrals.

“That’s hardly for me to say,” replied the Squadron Leader. “At any rate, it’s too big a project for me to give a decision, but you’ve given me something to think about. One of our big worries in the Mediterranean zone has been the delivery of fighter aircraft replacements. Bombers can fly out, but not single-seaters. If we could pull this off it might have even more far-reaching effects than even you realise. It’s dangerous—deuced dangerous——”

“What isn’t, in a war like this?” put in Worrals with a shrug.

“As you remark, what isn’t?” murmured the Squadron Leader drily. “But I must be getting along.”

“So must I,” said Worrals. “I’ve got to take a machine back to the makers for reconditioning this afternoon. I missed my breakfast; I don’t want to lose my lunch.”

“What you’ll lose, my gal, if you go on playing with fire, is your life,” snorted the C.O.

“Did no one ever tell you that, when you were collecting all those ribbons on your chest?” asked Worrals evenly.

The C.O. bristled. “That’s nothing to do wi’t. I’m a man.”

“Being a man doesn’t——”

“Get out o’ my office,” flared the C.O., starting to his feet.

Worrals saluted. “Yes, sir,” she said meekly.

Outside the door she burst out laughing. “I love Old Frostyface best of all when he pretends to be angry,” she sighed. “Let’s go and snatch a bit of lunch.”

In her heart she did not expect to hear any more of the scheme, even though it might be taken up by the Higher Command; but three days later she was called to the Air Ministry where, in Squadron Leader Yorke’s office, the matter was reopened.

“Sit down, Worrals,” invited the Squadron Leader. “Cigarette?”

“No thanks—I don’t use them.”

“You’ve got an idea why I’ve sent for you, I suppose?”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to take up my scheme?”

The Squadron Leader nodded. “We are. But it’s more a job for Operations than Intelligence, so, unfortunately, I’ve had instructions to take you along to the Special Operations Branch.”

“Why do you say unfortunately?”

“Because if they get hold of you they’ll probably try to keep you, which means that Intelligence will lose you.”

Worrals smiled. “Thanks for the compliment. Who’s in charge of Special Ops.?”

“Air Commodore Raymond. Matter of fact, he was on Intelligence until recently. He’s a good scout, and knows what he’s talking about. Let’s go and see him.”

A few minutes later Worrals found herself in Special Operations Headquarters being regarded by a tall, elderly, serious-faced man. After inviting her to be seated he came straight to the point.

“About this scheme of yours, Miss Worralson. Were you serious when you told Squadron Leader Yorke that you were prepared to undertake the job?”

“Certainly, sir,” answered Worrals without hesitation.

“How well do you know the district?”

“Fairly well. I spent a holiday there, a month, during which time I did a lot of pottering about.”

“By yourself?”

“Mostly, but in the difficult places I had a guide named Louis Capelle.”

“What do you mean by the difficult places?”

“Well, he showed me some of the caves and took me through the Gorge du Tarn in his boat. He’s a professional guide—or he was, when I was there.”

“Where did he live?”

“In La Malene.”

“I see.” The Air Commodore stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“Why are you so interested in this man, sir?” inquired Worrals.

“Because—I may as well be frank—there are aspects of this project that I don’t see how you can handle yourself.”

“I have a friend, Flight Officer Lovell——” began Worrals, but the Air Commodore interrupted.

“So I understand. But I was thinking of something different—a male assistant, a Frenchman for choice.” The Air Commodore leaned back in his chair and regarded Worrals seriously. “In the first place, it’s getting late in the year, and while it might be possible for two girls to sleep rough in the Cévennes in the summer, you would be in a bad way if you were caught in the mountains by bad weather. Then there is the matter of fresh food. And finally, the installation of such equipment as you would require would demand considerable physical strength. Of course, we could send a man, or two men, with you, but for obvious reasons a Frenchman would be better. He would probably be able to get food, and find accommodation in the event of bad weather, and be helpful in many ways.”

“Yes, sir, I see that,” agreed Worrals slowly. She turned suddenly to Squadron Leader Yorke, who had remained in the room. “How about Lucien, the Vicomte Delarose?” she suggested.

“Who’s he?” demanded the Air Commodore.

Squadron Leader Yorke answered. “A young French nobleman who, with some patriotic friends, has been of great service to us in the espionage branch. Worrals—that is, Flight Officer Worralson—has worked with him before.”

“He might be the very man for us,” said the Air Commodore, looking interested. “Is he over here?”

“No, as a matter of fact he’s in France.”

“But you could get in touch with him?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” The Air Commodore turned to Worrals. “Naturally, the fewer the people who know about an operation of this sort, the better, but I should feel happier in my mind if I knew you had inside help. I take it that you would be prepared to work with this fellow Lucien again?”

“Certainly, sir,” agreed Worrals. “He’s absolutely reliable. Indeed, I understand that he has done so much for Fighting France that the Boches have put a price on his head.”

“In that case let’s get down to details,” said the Air Commodore.

And so the matter had been settled. Ten days later the girls had baled out from a night-flying aircraft piloted by Worrals’ friend, Flying Officer Bill Ashton, who had been brought into the scheme as ferry pilot between the base in England and the scene of operations in France. With food, maps, a small portable radio and a compass, they had jumped over the open country near Alais, on the fringe of the Cévennes, and having landed safely headed at once for the mountain rendezvous where Squadron Leader Yorke had made arrangements for them to contact Lucien. They had been in France nearly four days, sleeping by day in the woods, and, avoiding habitations, travelling by night. They still wore their service uniforms which, however, were well hidden beneath drab-coloured raincoats. The Air Commodore had been in favour of disguises, but, as Worrals pointed out, they were engaged in a purely military operation, not espionage. Should they be captured they would—or should—be treated as prisoners of war, not as spies.

“I wouldn’t give much for your chance, all the same, if Von Brandisch gets his hands on you,” Squadron Leader Yorke had said earnestly. “You twisted his tail the last time you were in France—and Gestapo agents don’t like having their tails twisted. It makes them spiteful.”

“If I’m going to be shot I’d rather take it in uniform,” declared Worrals. And that’s how it was left.

The girls were now within striking distance of their objective, and so far had encountered no serious obstacles. Worrals stood and picked up her bundle as the misty point of a crescent moon rose slowly above the gaunt mountain peaks.

“Let’s get along,” she said.