Читать книгу Worrals Flies Again - W E Johns - Страница 3

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Flight-Officer Joan Worralson, better known to her friends in the W.A.A.F. as “Worrals,” tossed her hat on her bed, sank into a chair and regarded her friend and room-mate, Section-Officer “Frecks” Lovell, with brooding eyes.

“There are times,” she remarked sombrely, “when I could scream. I don’t know what you think about it, but on occasion there is a character of monotony about service life that gives me the willies. Drill, breakfast, more drill, lunch, tea, lectures, dinner, bed. Next day; drill, breakfast ...”

“Hey! Snap out of it,” protested Frecks indignantly. “The aerodrome——”

“If I look much longer at that uninspiring expanse of dull, dreary, dirty turf, I shall throw myself on it and tear the grass with my teeth.”

“The trouble with you is, you’ve been spoilt. You’ve had more than your fair share of excitement,” Frecks pointed out with disconcerting frankness, and more than a suspicion of truth.

“I’m afraid you’re right,” agreed Worrals sadly. “Excitement is like a drug. The more you have the more you want, and when you can’t get it the old nerves begin to twitch. For three months I haven’t done a blessed thing except ...” She broke off as a knock came on the door.

“Come in,” she invited. “Yes, what is it?” she went on as an aircraftwoman, the hutment orderly, entered.

“Please, the C.O. is outside. He wants to see you immediately.”

Worrals arched her eyebrows. “Outside? Outside where?”

“He’s waiting outside the hut.”

Worrals turned astonished eyes to Frecks. “Did you hear that? Old Frostyface has come to see me. I wonder what he’s got on his mind—it must be something pretty urgent.”

Frecks regarded her friend suspiciously. “What have you been up to? Come on—come clean.”

“I wish you’d stop going to the flicks, then perhaps you’d learn to speak English again,” grunted Worrals irritably. “For your information, I haven’t done anything; I’ve been too bored even to break a standing order.”

“Well, don’t keep the old bear waiting. Find out what he wants,” suggested Frecks brightly.

Worrals clapped her cap on her head and strode down the corridor to the outside door, where a glance revealed that the orderly had spoken the simple truth. Squadron-Leader McNavish was there, pacing up and down, striking viciously at the turf with his cane. He looked up sharply as Worrals appeared.

“Ah, there you are,” he rapped out, and Worrals knew at once from the broadness of his Scotch accent that something serious was afoot. “Well, come on, come on. Don’t stand there staring,” rasped the C.O. “I’ve something to tell ye.”

“Yes, sir.” Worrals, who knew the C.O. as well as he knew himself—perhaps better—perceived that it was no time to argue. She stepped briskly down to the path.

“Now listen, my gal,” growled the C.O., in what Worrals knew was intended to be a confidential whisper. “I shouldn’t have come over here, but I wanted to give ye a spot of advice. There’s a feller in my office wantin’ to see ye—one of these Intelligence people from the Ministry. He’s got a scheme which, no doot, he thinks is clever, but which to me sounds completely daft. Don’t ye take it on. Let him work his own schemes.”

“What is this scheme, sir?” enquired Worrals smoothly.

“He’ll tell ye that himself. I can’t refuse to let him put it up to you, but dinna do it. Mebbe I shouldna say it, but a wise soldier never volunteers for anything. He gets nothing if things go right, and all the kicks if they go wrong.”

“Perhaps I’d better hear what this Officer has to say, sir,” returned Worrals noncommittally.

“Of course—of course. But dinna take anything on. Tell him ye’ve got a sick grandmother——”

“But I haven’t got a grandmother,” interrupted Worrals reproachfully.

“Make it an aunt, then—an uncle—anybody, if ye must be so particular. Who do these confounded people think they are, coming down here and upsetting my establishment?” Grumbling deep in his throat, the C.O. marched fiercely towards the Station Office, followed closely by Worrals.

An officer, a squadron-leader, rose as they went into the C.O.’s office. He was middle-aged, but his face wore an anxious expression that often results from carrying a heavy load of responsibility.

“Flight-Officer Worralson—this is Squadron-Leader Marcus Yorke,” barked the C.O. “He has come down specially to see ye.”

The Squadron-Leader held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Worralson,” he said pleasantly. “I know you well by reputation. Don’t think that the useful work which you have done for the Intelligence Branch has not been noticed by the Higher Command. Let’s sit down and have a little chat.”

Worrals accepted the invitation, but Squadron-Leader McNavish took up a position with his back to the fireplace, obviously prepared to regard the proceedings with disfavour.

“Now, Miss Worralson,” resumed Squadron-Leader Yorke, “am I right in supposing that you have a leaning towards dangerous duties?”

Worrals caught the C.O.’s eye, and nearly laughed at the dour expression on his face. She looked back at the Intelligence officer. By this time she had a shrewd idea of what was coming, so she proceeded warily.

“I wouldn’t exactly say that, sir,” she parried.

“Well, let us put it this way,” continued the visitor, unperturbed. “You have certainly shown an extraordinary aptitude for Intelligence work of the most perilous kind, and that being so, we feel—I am speaking on behalf of the Air Council—that you might prefer to be taken off purely routine duties for a while, and put on something more in accord with your obvious abilities. I understand that you speak several languages—French, fluently.”

“I lived in France for over a year before the war, sir,” explained Worrals.

“Good. No doubt you understand the French character. In the ordinary way, we should not dream of asking a member of the Women’s Service to undertake the duties I am about to outline to you, but the fact is, we feel that there may be a time when a girl might succeed where a man would fail. In other words, in view of your previous exploits, we suspect that it is possible for a girl to evade suspicion where a man——”

“Just a moment, sir,” interrupted Worrals coldly. “Are you suggesting that any useful work I may have done in the past was due entirely to the fact that being a girl I enjoyed privileges that would have been denied to a man?”

The Squadron-Leader had the wit to see that he had struck a wrong note, and made haste to correct himself. “No, of course not. Your success was due entirely to merit. All the same, it seems possible that the enemy has not yet realised that our girls are as good as our men. If that is so, then we ought to take advantage of it.”

“I see,” replied Worrals slowly. “And now, sir, suppose we cut out the compliments and get down to business. You want me to do something. When I know just what that is I shall be in a position to consider it. It may save time if you tell me right away.”

For a moment the Squadron-Leader looked somewhat disconcerted at this direct approach; then he smiled faintly and continued.

“Yes, perhaps that would be the best way,” he agreed. “Very well. Here is the proposition. It is no haphazard affair, but a definite assignment, and—I own freely—not one to be undertaken lightly. If things go wrong, it is unlikely that we shall be able to help you. From first to last, you will have to stand on your own feet. I need hardly tell you that it matters little to the Nazis, when it comes to anyone suspected of espionage, whether the operative is a man or a woman. I’m not going to attempt to deceive you. You would be well advised to consider my proposition carefully before you reach a decision. The life of an agent in war is one of constant peril. The Nazi counter-espionage system is ruthlessly efficient. Now I’ve told you the worst, we’ll get on.” Squadron-Leader Yorke lit a cigarette and resumed.

“For some time past we have had under consideration a scheme whereby information gathered in the occupied countries—where, I may say we have many friends—could be brought home with the least possible loss of time. There is, of course, radio, but German ears are always on the air, and not only is the signal intercepted, which often renders the information useless, but it is only a question of time before the German wireless experts track down the secret sending station. There is also visual signalling—by means of torches at night, for example. These signals may also be seen by the enemy, and what is even more annoying, bad visibility may interfere with the operations. Imagine how impotent an agent must feel, when, having at great risk acquired some vital information, he is unable to transmit it because a blanket of fog has descended.”

Worrals nodded. “Yes. I see the difficulties.”

“Good. In the transmission of information speed is everything. We propose, therefore, to maintain an aircraft in occupied territory. In the event of important information being received, the pilot will fly it straight across to England.”

Worrals stared. “Maintain an aircraft in occupied territory? It sounds fantastic. You haven’t forgotten that aircraft make a noise, or that the Nazis have ears?”

The Squadron-Leader smiled. “No, we haven’t forgotten that. But chance has put a curious opportunity our way. Do you happen to know the châteaux country—I mean, the big mediæval châteaux on the Loire?”

“I can’t say I know the country well, but I’ve been there. In fact, I’ve been over some of the castles: They are open to tourists.”

“Do you happen to know the Château Delarose?”

Worrals shook her head. “I’ve never even heard of it.”

“I was prepared for that—the castle is rather off the beaten track, and is not very well known. It stands about a mile back from the River Loire, between Tours and Blois, and is, in fact, one of the oldest of them all, dating back to the twelfth century. As you may suppose, the castle, for the greater part, is a ruin, or practically so; but one wing has been maintained, and is still occupied. The château is the property of Count de la Rose. His son escaped recently and is now in service with the Fighting French Forces. It was he who suggested that the château might make an ideal rendezvous for British agents in France. There are, it appears, enormous cellars. Leading down to them from the remains of the moat, now dry, is a sort of ramp, down which the great wine barrels were once rolled. The cellar could easily accommodate a small aircraft—particularly one with foldable wings. We had in mind a Merton Midget, a popular type of light plane before the war. It is slow, of course, but light, and comparatively quiet. You begin to grasp the idea?”

Worrals nodded again. “Yes. It seems a sound scheme.”

“The country around is flat and open, which simplifies the matter of night landings,” resumed the Squadron-Leader. “Someone will have to fly the aircraft out, land, get the machine into the castle cellars, after which the doors will be closed. The pilot will then have nothing more to do except wait until a message is received. He—or she—will then fly it home.”

“Who is going to decide that the message is of such a vital nature that it is worth flying home?”

“The agent who delivers it. The pilot may not even see him. That depends on circumstances. In any case, the pilot will not be able to read the message, since it will be in code. If a piece of paper bearing the letter U, meaning urgent, is received, it must be got home immediately at all cost. As a matter of detail the letter U will be followed by other marks, but these need not concern the pilot. The Roman figure after the letter U merely denotes the identity of the operative sending the message. The letters that follow that number simply indicate the code used—that is for our information. Flights will only be made during the hours of darkness. It would be folly to attempt such a flight in daylight.”

“I understand,” said Worrals quietly. “And you want me to be the pilot?”

“Er——” The Squadron-Leader glanced at the C.O., who was still standing with his back to the fireplace. His expression was positively savage. “That was the idea,” admitted the Squadron-Leader. “You see,” he went on quickly, “having once got to the place, you could take on the role of a visiting relation. Even if the Germans raided the place they would hardly expect a young girl to be concerned with espionage, much less of being a pilot. Naturally, you would be provided with identification papers—forged papers, of course.”

“There are certainly points about the scheme,” murmured Worrals. “Who is living in this castle now?”

“Only the custodian, an old man named Alphonse Mundier, his wife Louise, and a son named Lucien. The son, I am sorry to say, is not quite right in the head.”

Worrals frowned. “You mean he’s a lunatic? I don’t mind Nazis, but I draw the line at having a half-wit around.”

“Oh, he isn’t as bad as that,” returned the Squadron-Leader. “He’s merely a bit—shall we say—peculiar. He’s quite harmless.”

“I hope you’re right,” returned Worrals earnestly. “All the same, wouldn’t he be better out of the way?”

The Squadron-Leader shrugged. “I don’t think it matters. He may turn out to be useful. He understands the danger of the Nazis, and detests them—you needn’t worry on that score. Moreover, he knows every hole and corner in the castle, as he should, having been born there. Am I to understand from your remarks that you are willing to undertake the duty of air messenger?”

“Losh! Give the girl time to think,” snapped Squadron-Leader McNavish, making negative signs to Worrals from behind the Squadron-Leader’s back.

“I don’t think there’s much to think about, sir,” returned Worrals blandly. “It all sounds very interesting. I’ll fly the plane with pleasure.” She looked at Squadron-Leader Yorke. “One point occurs to me. Do you think it at all likely that the Nazis will have a record of me, a description, as a result of what has happened in the past?”

The Squadron-Leader thought for a moment. “You mean, would any of the German secret agents recognise you if they saw you?”

“Yes.”

“I doubt it. After all, you weren’t in France very long, and most of your work was done at night. While we’re discussing identification, though, you might have a good look at this photograph. If you can carry the face in your mind, it may stand you in good stead.” Squadron-Leader Yorke took a wallet from his pocket, extracted a photograph and passed it.

Worrals took it and studied it closely. It was a head and shoulders portrait of a man, a civilian, with a thin, cruel face, and large, outstanding ears. The eyes, small and piercing, were set close together.

“I might forget the face, but never those eyes,” said Worrals quietly, returning the photo. “Who is he?”

“Wilhelm von Brandisch, head of the Gestapo in occupied France, and, in our opinion, one of the most dangerous men in the German Secret Service. You’ll need all your skill and resource if ever you run up against him. Incidentally, you can usually hear him as well as see him, for he suffers from a chest complaint that is audible as a dry, rasping cough.”

“I’ll remember it,” said Worrals. “Just one other thing. If my memory serves me the Merton Midget is a two-seater. Is the spare seat to be occupied by anyone?”

“Not as far as we know. Why?”

“Would there be any objection to my taking a friend with me? I am thinking of the girl who helped me on my previous affairs of this sort. She is absolutely reliable, and also happens to be a pilot. There ought to be a reserve pilot in case anything happened to me. Suppose I happen to fall sick?”

Squadron-Leader Yorke rubbed his chin. “Hm. The possibility hadn’t occurred to me. I shouldn’t think there would be the slightest objection. On the contrary, it sounds a wise precaution.”

“It’s nice to have someone to talk things over with.”

“She may not like the idea,” the Squadron-Leader pointed out.

A ghost of a smile lifted the corners of Worrals’ mouth. “I don’t think you need worry about that. She’s more likely to kick if she’s left behind.”

“Very well. Subject to confirmation by the Higher Command, you can call that settled. Just one final point. May I take it that as you will be on the spot, so to speak, you will be willing to undertake emergency work in France should the occasion arise? Of course, such a contingency might never occur, but it is as well to be clear on these matters while we are in a position to discuss them calmly.”

“You be careful, Worrals. I knew there was a trick in it,” snorted Squadron-Leader McNavish.

Worrals smiled broadly. “It’s nice of you to take such an interest in my welfare, sir, but I shall avoid unnecessary risks. I’m sure Squadron-Leader Yorke will not ask me to attempt the impossible.”

“Of course not,” agreed the Squadron-Leader readily. “We shall give you as little trouble as possible. When could you be ready to start?”

“Just as soon as you like.”

“The machine is ready.”

“Then we may as well make it to-night.”

“Splendid. Make your own arrangements. I’ll see you again before you start. There will be one or two details to settle.”

“Very well, sir, if that’s all. I’ll go and pack my small kit.”

“Good.” Squadron-Leader Yorke held out his hand.

Worrals shook it, saluted, and returned to her quarters. Frecks was lying on her bed, reading.

“On your feet, partner,” ordered Worrals curtly. “We’re off.”

Frecks started. “Off? Where to?”

Worrals tossed her hat on a peg. “To France,” she answered briefly.